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VAGABONDIA 


BLISS  CARMAN 
RICHARD  HOVEY 


WHOSE    FURTHEST- 
STRAYED 

BEYOND  THE  VILL- 
IS  BUT  A  LODGER- 
IN  THIS  OLD  WAY- 
TO-MORROW  HE  SH- 
AND  SET  OUT  FOR- 

ON  THE  OLD  TRAIL- 
STAR 

AN    ALIEN    AND    A- 


FOOTSTEP  NEVER 


•AGE  OF  HIS  BIRTH 
-FOR   THE    NIGHT 
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-VAGABOND 


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MORE   SONGS    FROM   VAGABONDIA 


BY  BLISS  CARMAN 

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MORE  SONGS 

FROM 

VAGABONDIA 

BLISS  CARMAN 
RICHARD    HOVEY 

DESIGNS    BY 

TOM  B  METEYARD 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD   &   COMPANY 
MDCCCCI 


COPYRIGHT,    1896, 
BY  BLISS  CARMAN   AND   RICHARD    HOVEY. 


First  edition  (750  copies)  October,  1896 
Second  edition  (750  copies)  December,  1896 
Third  edition  (750  copies)  November,   1899 
Fourth  edition  (750  copies)  October,  1901 


To  M.  G.  M.,  so  good  to  lighten  cares. 
The  boys  inscribe  this  second  book  of  theirs. 


39G741 

2226960 


CONTENTS. 

JONGLEURS  I 

EARTH'S  LYRIC  5 

THE  WOOD-GOD  6 

A  FAUN'S  SONG  7 

QUINCE  TO  LILAC  7 

AN  EASTER  MARKET  1 1 

DAISIES  13 

THE   MOCKING-BIRD  13 

KARLENE  14 

KARLENE  l6 

CONCERNING  KAVIN  21 

KAVIN   AGAIN  21 

ACROSS   THE   TABLE  21 

BARNEY   MCGEE  22 

THE  SEA   GYPSY  25 

SPEECH   AND   SILENCE  26 

SECRETS  26 

THE  FIRST  JULEP  26 

A  STEIN  SONG  27 

THE  UNSAINTING  OF  KAVIN  28 

IN  THE  WAYLAND  WILLOWS  29 

WHEN  I  WAS  TWENTY  31 

IN  A  SILENCE  32 

THE  BATHER  33 
NOCTURNE:  IN  ANJOU 

NOCTURNE:  IN  PROVENCE  34 

JUNE  NIGHT  IN  WASHINGTON  35 

A  SONG  FOR  MARNA  38 

SEPTEMBER  WOODLANDS  38 

NANCIBEL  39 

A  VAGABOND  SONG  39 

THREE  OF  A  KIND  40 

WOOD-FOLK  LORE  42 

AT  MICHAELMAS  44 
vii 


THE   MOTHER   OF   POETS  48 

A   GOOD-BY  40 

IN   A   COPY   OF   BROWNING  49 

SHAKESPEARE   HIMSELF  53 

AT   THE    ROAD-HOUSE  56 

VERLAINE  58 

DISTILLATION  en 

A  FRIEND'S  WISH  ^n 

LAL   OF   KILRUDDEN  60 

HUNTING-SONG  6l 

BUIE  ANNAJOHN  62 

MARY   OF   MARKA  63 

PREMONITION  63 

THE   HEARSE-HORSE  64 

THE   NIGHT-WASHERS  64 

MR.    MOON  66 

HEM   AND   HAW  70 

ACCIDENT   IN  ART  71 

IN   A   GARDEN  71 

AT  THE  END  OF  THE  DAY  72 


viii 


A  nd  ever  with  the  vanguard 

The  -vagrant  singers  come 

The  gamins  of  the  city 

Who  dance  before  the  drum 


JONGLEURS. 

WHAT  is  the  stir  in  the  street? 
Hurry  of  feet ! 
And  after, 
A  sound  as  of  pipes  and  of  tabers ! 

Men  of  the  conflicts  and  labors, 

Struggling  and  shifting  and  shoving, 

Pushing  and  pounding  your  neighbors, 

Fighting  for  leeway  for  laughter, 

Toiling  for  leisure  for  loving ! 

Hark,  through  the  window  and  up  to  the  rafter. 

Madder  and  merrier, 

Deeper  and  verier, 

Sweeter,  contrarier, 

Dafter  and  dafter, 

A  song  arises,  — 

A  thrill,  an  intrusion, 

A  reel,  an  illusion, 

A  rapture,  a  crisis 

Of  bells  in  the  air ! 

Ay,  up  from  your  work  and  look  out  of  the  window ! 
"Who  are  the  newcomers,  Arab  or  Hindoo? 
Persians,  or  Japs,  or  the  children  of  I  sis  ?  " 
—  Guesses,  surmises  — 
Forth  with  you,  fare 

Down  in  the  street  to  draw  nearer  and  stare ! 
Come  from  your  palaces,  come  from  your  hovels ! 
Lay  down  your  ledgers,  your  picks  and  your  shovels, 
Your  trowels  and  bricks, 


Jongleurs.  Hammers  and  nails, 
Scythes  and  flails, 
Bargains  and  sales, 
And  the  trader's  tricks, 
Deals,  overreachings, 
Worries  and  griefs, 
Teachings  and  preachings, 
Boluses,  briefs, 
Writs  and  attachments, 
Quarterings,  hatchments, 
Clans  and  cognomens, 
Tomes,  prolegomens, 
Comments  and  scholia, 
(World's  melancholia)  — 

Cast  them  aside,  and  good  riddance  to  rubbish  ! 
Here  at  the  street-corner,  hearken,  a  strain, 
Rough  and  off-hand  and  a  bit  rub-a-dub-ish, 
Gives  us  a  taste  of  the  life  we  'd  attain. 

Who  are  they,  what  are  they,  whence  have  they 

come  to  us? 

Where  will  they  go  when  their  singing  is  done? 
What  is  the  garb  they  wear,  tattered  and  sumptuous, 
Faded  with  days  and  superb  in  the  sun  ? 
What  are  they  singing  of  ? 
Hush! 

.  .  .  There 's  a  ringing  of 
Delicate  chimes; 
And  the  blush 
Of  a  veiled  bride  morning 
Beats  in  the  rhymes. 
Listen ! 

Out  of  the  merriment, 
Clear  as  the  glisten 
Of  dew  on  the  brier, 
A  silver  warning ! 

2 


Sudden,  a  dare —  Jongleurs. 

Lyric  experiment  — 

Up  like  a  lark  in  the  air, 

Higher  and  higher  and  higher, 

The  song  shoots  out  of  our  blunder 

Of  thought  to  the  blue  sky  of  wonder, 

And  broken  strains  only  fall  down 

Like  pearls  on  the  roofs  of  the  town. 

Somebody  says  they  have  come  from  the  moon, 

Seen  with  their  eyes  Eldorado, 

Sat  in  the  Bo-tree's  shadow, 

Wandered  at  noon 

In  the  valleys  of  Van, 

Tented  in  Lebanon,  tarried  in  Ophir, 

Last  year  in  Tartary  piped  for  the  Khan. 

Now  it's  the  song  of  a  lover; 

Now  it 's  the  lilt  of  a  loafer,  — 

Under  the  trees  in  a  midsummer  noon, 

Dreaming  the  haze  into  isles  to  discover, 

Beating  the  silences  into  a  croon ; 

Soon 

Up  from  the  marshes  a  call  of  the  plover! 

Out  from  the  cover 

A  flurry  of  quail ! 

Down  from  the  height  where  the  slow  hawks 

hover, 

The  thin  far  ghost  of  a  hail ! 
And  near,  and  near, 
Throbbing  and  tingling,  — 
With  a  human  cheer 
In  the  earth-song  mingling, — 
Mirth  and  carousal, 
Wooing,  espousal, 
Clinking  of  glasses 
And  laughter  of  lasses  — 


Jongleurs.  And  the  wind  in  the  garden  stoops  down  as  it 

passes 

To  play  with  the  hair 
Of  the  loveliest  there, 

And  the  wander-lust  catches  the  will  in  its  snare ; 
Hill-wind  and  spray-lure, 
Call  of  the  heath ; 
Dare  in  the  teeth 
Of  the  balk  and  the  failure; 
The  clasp  and  the  linger 
Of  loosening  finger, 
Loth  to  dissever ; 

Thrill  of  the  comrade  heart  to  its  fellow 
Through   droughts  that  sicken   and  blasts  that 

bellow 

From  purple  furrow  to  harvest  yellow, 
Now  and  forever. 

How  our  feet  itch  to  keep  time  to  their  measure  ! 
How  our  hearts  lift  to  the  lilt  of  their  song ! 
Let  the  world  go,  for  a  day's  royal  pleasure  ! 
Not  every  summer  such  waifs  come  along. 

Now  they  are  off  to  the  inn; 
Hear  the  clean  ring  of  their  laughter! 
Cool  as  a  hill-brook  after 
The  heat  of  the  noon  sets  in ! 
Gentlemen  even  in  jollity  — 
Certainly  people  of  quality !  — 
Waifs  and  estrays  no  less, 
Roofless  and  penniless, 
They  are  the  wayside  strummers 
Whose  lips  are  man's  renown, 
Those  wayward  brats  of  Summer's 
Who  stroll  from  town  to  town ; 
Spendthrift  of  life,  they  ravish 
The  days  of  an  endless  store, 
4 


And  ever  the  more  they  lavish  Jongleurs. 

The  heap  of  the  hoard  is  more. 

For  joy  and  love  and  vision 

Are  alive  and  breed  and  stay 

When  dust  shall  hold  in  derision 

The  misers  of  a  day. 


EARTH'S    LYRIC. 

APRIL.     You  hearken,  my  fellow, 
Old  slumberer  down  in  my  heart  ? 
There 's  a  whooping  of  ice  in  the  rivers; 
The  sap  feels  a  start. 

The  snow-melted  torrents  are  brawling ; 
The  hills,  orange-misted  and  blue, 
Are  touched  with  the  voice  of  the  rainbird 
Unsullied  and  new. 

The  houses  of  frost  are  deserted, 
Their  slumber  is  broken  and  done, 
And  empty  and  pale  are  the  portals 
Awaiting  the  sun. 

The  bands  of  Arcturus  are  slackened ; 
Orion  goes  forth  from  his  place 
On  the  slopes  of  the  night,  leading  homeward 
His  hound  from  the  chase. 

The  Pleiades  weary  and  follow 
The  dance  of  the  ghostly  dawn; 
The  revel  of  silence  is  over ; 
Earth's  lyric  comes  on. 

5 


Earth's  A  golden  flute  in  the  cedars, 
Lyric.   j±  silver  pipe  in  the  swales, 

.''  And  the  slow  large  life  of  the  forest 
Wells  back  and  prevails. 


A  breath  of  the  woodland  spirit 
Has  blown  out  the  bubble  of  spring 
To  this  tenuous  hyaline  glory 
One  touch  sets  a-wing. 


THE  WOOD-GOD. 

T)ROTHER,  lost  brother! 
XjThou  of  mine  ancient  kin  ! 
Thou  of  the  swift  will  that  no  ponderings  smother! 
The  dumb  life  in  me  fumbles  out  to  the  shade 
Thou  lurkest  in. 

In  vain  —  evasive  ever  through  the  glade 
Departing  footsteps  fail ; 

And  only  where  the  grasses  have  been  pressed, 
Or  by  snapped  twigs  I  follow  a  fruitless  trail. 
So  —  give  o'er  the  quest! 
Sprawl  on  the  roots  and  moss  ! 
Let  the  lithe  garter  squirm  across  my  throat ! 
Let  the  slow  clouds  and  leaves  above  me  float 
Into  mine  eyeballs  and  across, — 
Nor  think  them  further!     Lo,  the  marvel !  now, 
Thou  whom  my  soul  desireth,  even  thou 
Sprawl'st  by  my  side,  who  fled'st  at  my  pursuit. 
I  hear  thy  fluting ;  at  my  shoulder  there 
I  see  the  sharp  ears  through  the  tangled  hair, 
And  birds  and  bunnies  at  thy  music  mute. 
6 


FAUN'S    SONG. 

COOL!  cool!  cool! 
Cool  and  sweet 

The  feel  of  the  moss  at  my  feet ! 
And  sweet  and  cool 
The  touch  of  the  wind,  of  the  wind ! 

Cool  wind  out  of  the  blue, 
At  the  touch  of  you 
A  little  wave  crinkles  and  flows 
All  over  me  down  to  my  toes. 

"  Coo-loo !     Coo-loo ! " 

Hear  the  doves  in  the  tree-tops  croon. 

"Coo-loo!     Coo-loo!" 

Love  comes  soon. 

"June!    June!" 
The  veery  sings, 
Sings  and  sings, 
"June!    June!"  — 
A  pretty  tune ! 

Wind  with  your  weight  of  perfume, 
Bring  me  the  bluebells'  bloom  ! 


QUINCE   TO   LILAC:    To  G.  H. 

DEAR  Lilac,  how  enchanting 
To  hear  of  you  this  way  ! 
The  Man  who  comes  a-mouching 
To  visit  me  each  day 


Says  you  too  have  a  lover 
Far  lovelier  than  I. 

7 


Quince  to  And  from  his  rapt  description, 
Lilac.       5jie  ioves  yOU  gloriously. 

The  Man  prowls  out  each  morning 
To  see  if  spring 's  begun. 
What  infinite  amusement 
These  creatures  offer  one ! 

He  asks  me  such  conundrums 
As  no  one  ever  heard  : 
The  name  of  April's  father, 
The  trail  of  every  bird, 

What  keeps  me  warm  in  winter, 
Who  wakes  me  up  in  time, 
And  why  procrastination 
Is  such  a  fearful  crime. 

And  yet,  who  knows  ?     He  may  be 
Our  equal  ages  hence  — 
With  such  pathetic  glimmers 
Of  weird  intelligence ! 

But  this  your  blessed  alien, 
Why  strays  she  roving  here  ? 
Was  Orpheus  not  her  brother, 
Persephone  her  peer  ? 

Was  she  not  once  a  dryad 
Whom  Syrinx  lulled  to  sleep 
Beside  the  Dorian  water, 
And  still  her  eyelids  keep 

The  glad  unperished  secret 
From  centuries  of  joy, 
And  memories  of  the  morning 
When  Helen  sailed  for  Troy  ? 


Is  her  name  Gertrude,  Kitty,  Quince  to 

Hypatia,  or  what  ? 

I  seem  to  half  remember, 

And  yet  have  quite  forgot. 

That  soft  Hellenic  laughter! 
I  marvel  you  don't  make 
An  effort  to  be  early 
In  budding  for  her  sake. 

Just  fancy  hearing  daily 
That  velvet  voice  of  hers! 
How  do  you  quell  the  riot 
Of  sap  her  coming  stirs  ? 

Perhaps  she  puts  her  face  up, 
(Dear  Charity  she  is!) 
For  messages  of  summer 
And  better  worlds  than  this. 

You  cannot  blush,  poor  Lilac  ; 
It  is  not  in  your  race. 
I  simply  should  go  crimson, 
If  I  were  in  your  place. 

Do  tell  her  all  your  secrets  ! 
The  Man  declares  she  knows 
Better  than  any  mortal 
The  wonder-trick  of  prose. 

Our  prose,  I  mean,  —  how  beauty 
Appears  to  you  and  me ; 
The  truth  that  seems  so  simple, 
Which  they  call  poetry. 

They  put  it  down  in  writing 
And  label  it  with  tags, 
9 


Quince  to  The  funny  conscious  people 
Lilac,        Who  mask  in  colored  rags  ! 

They  have  a  thing  called  science, 
With  phrases  strange  and  pat. 
My  dear,  can  you  imagine 
Intelligence  like  that? 

And  when  they  first  discover 
That  yellows  are  not  greens, 
They  pucker  up  their  foreheads 
And  ponder  what  it  means. 

And  then  those  cave-like  places, 
Churches  and  Capitols, 
Where  they  all  come  together 
Like  troops  of  talking  dolls, 

To  govern,  as  they  term  it, 
(It 's  really  very  odd !) 
And  have  what  they  call  worship 
Of  something  they  call  God. 

But  Kitty,  or  whatever 
May  be  her  tender  name, 
Is  more  like  us.     She  guesses 
What  sets  the  year  aflame. 

She  knows  beyond  her  senses ; 
Do  tell  her  all  you  can  ! 
The  funny  people  need  it, — 
At  least,  so  says  The  Man. 

Good-by,  dear.     I  must  idle. 
Sweet  suns  and  happy  rains  ! 
How  nice  to  have  these  humans 
With  their  inventive  brains,  — 
10 


Their  little  scraps  of  paper ! 
They  certainly  evince 
Remarkable  discernment. 
Your  ever  loving  Quince. 


EASTER   MARKET. 

TO-DAY,  through  your  Easter  market 
In  the  lazy  Southern  sun, 
I  strolled  with  hands  in  pockets 
Past  the  flower-stalls  one  by  one. 

Indolent,  dreamy,  ready 
For  anything  to  amuse, 
Shyfoot  out  for  a  ramble 
In  his  oldest  hat  and  shoes. 

Roses  creamy  and  yellow, 
Azaleas  crimson  and  white, 
And  the  flaky  fresh  carnations 
My  Orient  of  delight,  — 

Masses  and  banks  of  blossom 
That  dazzle  and  summon  the  eye, 
Till  the  buyers  are  half  bewildered 
To  know  what  they  want.     Not  I. 

Who  would  not  rather  be  artist 
And  slip  through  the  crowd  unseen 
To  gather  it  all  in  a  picture 
And  guess  what  the  faces  mean  ? 

So  down  through  the  chaffering  darkies 
I  pass  to  the  sidewalk's  end, 
Through  the  smiling  gingham  bonnets 
With  their  small  farm-stuff  to  vend. 
II 


An  Easter  When,  hello !  my  dreamer,  sudden 
Market.      As  call  at  the  dead  of  night. 

What  sets  your  pulses  a-quiver, 

What  sets  your  fancy  alight  ? 

Sure  of  it !     Mayflowers,  mayflowers, 
Scent  of  the  North  in  spring! 
Out  in  the  vernal  distance, 
Heart  of  me,  whither  a-wing  ? 

"  Give  me  some  !  "     Clutch  the  first  handful, 
Hungering  rover  of  earth  ! 
How  I  devour  and  kiss  them, 
Beauties  that  brought  me  to  birth, 

Away  in  the  great  north  country, 
The  land  of  the  lonely  sun, 
Where  God  has  few  for  his  fellows, 
And  the  wolves  of  the  snowdrift  run. 

Once  more  to  the  frost-bound  valley 
Comes  April  with  rain  in  her  jar ; 
I  can  hear  the  vesper  sparrow 
Under  the  silver  star. 

And  many  and  dear  and  gracious 
Are  the  dreams  that  walk  at  my  side 
From  the  land  of  the  lingering  shadows, 
As  out  of  the  throng  I  stride. 

Oh,  well  for  you,  mere  onlooker, 

Who  drift  through  the  world's  great  mart ! 

But  we  of  the  human  sorrow 

Have  a  joy  beyond  your  art. 


12 


DAISIES. 

L  the  shoulders  and  slopes  of  the  dune 
'I  saw  the  white  daisies  go  down  to  the  sea, 
A  host  in  the  sunshine,  an  army  in  June, 
The  people  God  sends  us  to  set  our  heart  free. 


o 


The  bobolinks  rallied  them  up  from  the  dell, 
The  orioles  whistled  them  out  of  the  wood; 
And  all  of  their  singing  was,  "  Earth,  it  is  well !  " 
And  all  of  their  dancing  was,  "  Life,  thou  art  good ! " 


THE   MOCKING-BIRD. 

T  TEAR!  hear',  hear! 
J.  J.   Listen !  the  word 
Of  the  mocking-bird ! 
Hear!  hear /  hear! 
I  will  make  all  clear; 
I  will  let  you  know 
Where  the  footfalls  go 
That  through  the  thicket  and  over  the  hill 
Allure,  allure. 
How  the  bird-voice  cleaves 
Through  the  weft  of  leaves 
With  a  leap  and  a  thrill 

Like  the  flash  of  a  weaver's  shuttle,  swift  and 
sudden  and  sure ! 

And  lo,  he  is  gone  —  even  while  I  turn 
The  wisdom  of  his  runes  to  learn. 
He  knows  the  mystery  of  the  wood, 
The  secret  of  the  solitude; 
But  he  will  not  tell,  he  will  not  tell, 
For  all  he  promises  so  well. 
13 


KARLENE. 

WORD  of  a  little  one  born  in  the  West,— 
How  like  a  sea-bird  it  comes  from  the  sea, 
Out  of  the  league-weary  waters'  unrest 
Blown  with  white  wings,  for  a  token,  to  me ! 

Blown  with  a  skriel  and  a  flurry  of  plumes 
(Sea-spray  and  flight-rapture  whirled  in  a  gleam  !) 
Here  for  a  sign  of  the  comrade  that  looms 
Large  in  the  mist  of  my  love  as  I  dream. 

He  with  the  heart  of  an  old  violin, 
Vibrant  at  every  least  stir  in  the  place, 
Lyric  of  woods  where  the  thrushes  begin, 
Wave-questing  wanderer,  still  for  a  space,  — 

What  will  the  child  of  his  be  (so  I  muse), 
Wood-flower,  sea-flower,  star-flower  rare  ? 
Worlds  here  to  choose  from,  and  which  will  she 

choose, 
She  whose  first  world  is  an  armsweep  of  air  ? 

Baby  Karlene,  you  are  wondering  now 
Why  you  can't  reach  the  great  moon  that  you  see 
Just  at  your  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  bough 
That  waves  in  the  window-pane  —  how  can  it  be  ? 

All  your  world  yet  hardly  lies  out  of  reach 

Of  ten  little  fingers  and  ten  little  toes. 

You  are  a  seed  for  the  sky  there  to  teach 

(And  the  sun  and  the  wind  and  the  rain)  as  it  grows. 

Just  a  green  leaf  piercing  up  to  the  day, 
Pale  fleck  of  June  to  come,  just  to  be  seen 
Through  the  rough  crumble  of  rubble  and  clay 
Lifting  its  loveliness,  dawn-child,  Karlene ! 
14 


Fragile  as  fairycraft,  dew-dream  of  love,  —  Karlene. 

Never  a  clod  that  has  marred  the  slim  stalk, 
Never  a  stone  but  its  frail  fingers  move, 
Bent  on  the  blue  sky  and  nothing  can  balk  ! 

Blue  sky  and  wind-laughters,  that  is  thy  dream. 
Ah  the  brave  days  when  thy  leafage  shall  toss 
High  where  gold  noondays  and  sunsets  a-stream 
Mix  with  its  moving  and  kiss  it  across. 

There  the  great  clouds  shall  go  lazily  by, 
Cool  thee  with  shadows  and  dazzle  with  shine, 
Drench  thee  with  rain-guerdons,  bless  thee  with 

sky, 
Till  all  the  knowledge  of  earth  shall  be  thine. 

Wind  from  the  ice-floe  and  wind  from  the  palm, 
Wind  from  the  mountains  and  wind  from  the  lea  — 
How  they  will  sing  thee  of  tempest  and  calm ! 
How  they  will  lure  thee  with  tales  of  the  sea  ! 

What  will  you  be  in  that  summer,  Karlene  ? 
Apple-tree,  cherry-tree,  lily,  or  corn  ? 
Red  rose  or  yellow  rose,  gray  leaf  or  green  ? 
Which  will  you  choose  now  the  year's  at  its 
morn? 

Somewhere  even  now  in  thy  heart  is  the  will,  — 
"  I  shall  be  Golden  Rod,  slender  and  tall  — 
I  shall  be  Pond  Lily,  secret  and  still  — 
I  shall  be  Sweetbriar,  Queen  of  them  all  — 

"  I  shall  give  shade  for  the  weary  to  rest  — 
I  shall  grow  flax  for  the  naked  to  wear  — 
Figs  for  a  feast  and  all  comers  to  guest  — 
Wreaths  that  girls  twine  in  the  laugh  of  their  hair — 
IS 


Karlene.  "  Ivy  for  scholars  and  myrtle  for  lovers, 
Laurel  for  conquerors,  poets,  and  kings  — 
Broad-spreading    beech-boughs    whose    benison 

covers 
Clamor  of  bird-notes  and  flutter  of  wings  — 

"  I  shall  rise  tall  as  an  elm  in  my  grace  — 
I  shall  be  clothed  as  catalpa  is  clad  — 
Poets  shall  crown  me  with  lyrics  of  praise  — 
Lovers  for  lure  of  my  blossoms  go  mad !  " 

Which  shall  it  be,  baby  ?     Guess  you  at  all  ? 
Only  I  know  in  the  lull  of  the  year 
You  have  said  now  where  your  choosing  shall  fall, 
Only  you  have  not  yet  heard  yourself,  dear. 

So,  like  a  mocking-bird,  up  in  the  trees, 
I  watching  wondering  where  you  have  grown, 
Borrow  a  note  from  a  birdfellow's  glees, 
Fittest  to  sing  you,  and  make  it  my  own. 

Only  I  know  as  I  wonder,  Karlene, 
Singing  up  here  where  you  think  me  a  star, 
Heaven  's  still  above  me,  and  some  one  serene 
Laughs  in  the  blue  sky  and  knows  what  you  are. 


KARLENE. 

GOOD-MORNING,  Karlene.     It 's  a  very 
Fine  beautiful  world  we  are  in. 
Well,  you  do  look  as  ripe  as  a  berry ; 
And,  pardon  me,  such  a  real  chin ! 
16 


And  may  I  —  Ah,  thank  you  ;  the  pleasure  Karlene. 

Is  mine ;  just  one  kiss  by  your  ear !  — 
May  I  introduce  myself  as  your 
Most  dutiful  godfather,  dear  ? 

I  have  fumed,  like  champagne  that  is  fizzy, 
To  pay  my  respects  at  your  door. 
But  the  publishers  keep  one  so  busy. 
Forgive  my  not  calling  before  ! 

Karlene,  you  're  a  very  small  lady 
To  venture  so  far  all  alone ; 
Especially  into  so  shady 
A  place  as  this  planet  has  grown. 

When  /now,  my  dear,  was  at  your  age, 
When  nobody  tried  to  be  rich, 
But  lived  on  high  thinking  and  porridge 
(And  didn't  know  t'  other  from  which !), 

For  a  girl  to  go  out  unattended 

Was  considered  "  not  only  unwise 

And  improper — "     Our  grandmothers  ended 

By  lifting  to  heaven  their  eyes. 

And  yet  even  now,  though  it 's  shocking 
To  slander  these  wonderful  years, 
I  dare  say  an  inch  of  black  stocking 
Could  set  all  the  world  by  the  ears. 

Black,  mind  you,  not  blue  !     It 's  a  trifle  ; 
But  trifling  in  stockings  won't  do; 
For  love  has  an  eye  like  a  rifle 
(His  bandage  is  slipping  askew). 

But  there !    You  are  simply  too  charming. 
No  doubt  you  '11  be  modern  enough 
17 


Karlene.  (Though  the  speed  of  the  world  is  alarming) 
To  win  with  a  delicate  bluff, 

As  we  say  when  we  're  raking  the  chips  in, 
On  a  hand  that  was  not  over  strong  — 
But  I  see  you  are  pursing  your  lips  in ; 
Perhaps  I  am  prating  too  long. 

Anyhow  you  '11  be  learned  in  isms, 

And  talk  pterodactyls  in  French, 

And  know  polyhedrons  from  prisms,  — 

Though  you  may  not  know  how  to  retrench. 

You  will  fall  out  of  love  with  digamma 
To  fall  in  again  with  Delsarte; 
You  will  make  a  new  Syriac  grammar, 
And  know  all  the  popes  off  by  heart. 

What  Socrates  said  to  Xantippe 

When  the  lash  of  her  tongue  made  him  grieve; 

What  makes  the  banana  peel  slippy; 

And  what  the  snake  whispered  to  Eve; 

The  music  that  Nero  had  played  him, 
When  Rome  was  touched  off  with  a  match ; 
Why  the  king  let  the  lady  upbraid  him 
For  burning  her  buns  in  a  batch  ; 

Why  Hebrew  is  written  left-handed ; 
And  what  Venus  did  with  her  arms ; 
What  the  Conqueror  said  when  he  landed; 
The  acres  in  Horace's  farms ; 

The  use  of  hirundo  and  passer: 
All  this  you  will  probe  to  the  pith 
As  a  freshman  at  Wellesley  or  Vassar 
Or  Bryn  Mawr  —  though  /prefer  Smith. 
18 


You  will  solve  every  riddle  in  Browning;  Karlene. 

And  learn  how  to  paddle  and  swim  ; 
And  save  other  people  from  drowning ; 
And  play  basket  ball  in  the  gym. 

But  you  '11  scorn  to  know  why  there  's  a  tax  on 
All  reading  that  is  n't  a  bore, 
When  Mallarme  's  filtered  through  Saxon 
And  the  Symbolists  come  to  the  fore. 

All  winter  you  '11  read  mathematics 
(Oh,  you  '11  be  a  terrible  "prod  "), 
And  in  June,  at  the  Senior  Dramatics, 
You  will  play  like  a  star.     But  it 's  odd, 

Since  you'll  quote  every  cadence  in  Kipling 
And  Arnold  (of  course  I  mean  Matt.), 
If  you  don't  make  a  bard  of  some  stripling 
Before  he  knows  where  he  is  at. 

I  am  sure  you  '11  be  lovely  as  Trilby, 
The  loveliest  bud  of  the  year; 
But  remember,  Karlene,  I  shall  still  be 
Your  doting  old  godfather,  dear. 

When  you  hear  Archimedes'  conundrum, 
Like  enough  you  '11  be  wanting  to  try 
Whether  one  little  girl  contra  mundum 
Can't  lift  the  old  thing  with  a  pry ! 

You  will  turn  up  your  nose  at  poor  "  Thy  will,*9 
With  a  haughty  agnostical  sniff, 
Till  you  find  the  imperative  "  I  will  " 
Has  a  future  conditional  "  if." 

And  then  you  will  come  to  your  senses, 
And  find  out  why  women  were  made ; 
19 


Karlene.  And  men  too ;  and  why  there  are  fences 

All  round  the  whole  lot  where  you  strayed, 

While  you  wore  yourself  down  to  a  shadow 
Yet  failed  to  discover  your  sphere ; 
For  you  '11  see  Adam  down  in  the  meadow 
And  think  what  a  goosey  you  were ! 

And  then  when  your  classmates  are  singing 
Once  more  for  good-by  the  old  glees, 
And  the  round  painted  lanterns  are  swinging 
And  sputtering  out  in  the  trees, 

When  everything  stales  and  withers 
Except  the  great  stars  up  above, 
Your  heartstrings  will  all  go  to  smithers, 
You  '11  just  be  one  crumple  of  love. 

And  Adam  will  be  such  a  duffer 
(Dear  fellow,  I  mean),  he  '11  contrive, 
Till  you  make  him,  to  not  make  him  suffer, 
The  happiest  mortal  alive. 

Oh,  it  makes  me  too  ill  to  continue, 
Imagining  how  it  will  be 
When  some  dapper  youth  comes  to  win  you 
And  smiles  condescension  on  me  ! 

I  shall  loathe  his  immaculate  breeding, 
And  advise  you  in  time  to  refuse. 
To  think  he  will  share  in  your  reading, 
And  even  unbutton  your  shoes ! 

And  yet  when  for  that  precious  laddie 
Your  hair  is  all  crinkled  and  curled, 
I  guess  you  '11  be  just  like  your  daddy, 
The  dearest  old  soul  in  the  world  ! 


CONCERNING   KAVIN. 

WHEN  Kavin  comes  back  from  the  barber, 
Although  he  no  longer  is  young, 
One  cheek  is  as  soft  as  his  heart, 
And  the  other  as  smooth  as  his  tongue. 


KAVIN   AGAIN. 

>T  is  not  anything  he  says, 
It 's  just  his  presence  and  his  smile, 
The  blarney  of  his  silences 
That  cocker  and  beguile. 


I 


ACROSS    THE   TABLE.     To  A.  L.  L. 

HERE  'S  to  you,  Arthur !     You  and  I 
Have  seen  a  lot  of  stormy  weather, 
Since  first  we  clinked  cups  on  the  sly 
At  school  together. 

The  winds  of  fate  have  had  their  will 
And  blown  our  crafts  so  far  apart 
We  hardly  knew  if  either  still 
Were  on  the  chart. 

But  now  I  know  the  love  of  man 
Is  more  than  time  or  space  or  fate, 
And  laugh  to  scorn  the  powers  that  ban, 
With  you  for  mate. 

It 's  good  to  have  you  sitting  by, 
Old  man,  to  prove  the  world  no  botch, 
To  shame  the  devil  with  your  eye 
And  pass  the  Scotch. 

21 


BARNEY   McGEE. 

T)ARNEY   McGEE,  there's  no  end  of  good 

J3        luck  in  you, 

Will-o'-the-wisp,  with  a  flicker  of  Puck  in  you, 

Wild  as  a  bull-pup  and  all  of  his  pluck  in  you, — 

Let  a  man  tread  on  your  coat  and  he  '11  see  !  — 

Eyes  like  the  lakes  of  Killarney  for  clarity, 

Nose  that  turns  up  without  any  vulgarity, 

Smile  like  a  cherub,  and  hair  that  is  carroty,  — 

Wow,  you  're  a  rarity,  Barney  McGee ! 

Mellow  as  Tarragon, 

Prouder  than  Aragon  — 

Hardly  a  paragon, 

You  will  agree  — 

Here  's  all  that 's  fine  to  you ! 

Books  and  old  wine  to  you ! 

Girls  be  divine  to  you, 

Barney  McGee ! 

Lucky  the  day  when  I  met  you  unwittingly, 
Dining  where  vagabonds  came  and  went  flittingly. 
Here  's  some  Barbara  to  drink  it  befittingly, 
That  day  at  Silvio's,  Barney  McGee ! 
Many's  the  time  we  have  quaffed  our  Chianti 

there, 

Listened  to  Silvio  quoting  us  Dante  there,  — 
Once  more  to  drink  Nebiolo  spumante  there, 
How  we  'd  pitch  Pommery  into  the  sea  ! 
There  where  the  gang  of  us 
Met  ere  Rome  rang  of  us, 
They  had  the  hang  of  us 
To  a  degree. 

How  they  would  trust  to  you ! 
That  was  but  just  to  you. 
Here  's  o'er  their  dust  to  you, 
Barney  McGee! 

22 


Barney  McGee,  when  you  're  sober  you  scintillate,      Barney 
But  when  you  're  in  drink  you  're  the  pride  of      McGee. 

the  intellect ; 

Divil  a  one  of  us  ever  came  in  till  late, 
Once  at  the  bar  where  you  happened  to  be  — 
Every  eye  there  like  a  spoke  in  you  centering, 
You  with  your  eloquence,  blarney,  and  bantering — 
All  Vagabondia  snouts  at  your  entering, 
King  of  the  Tenderloin,  Barney  McGee ! 
There  's  no  satiety 
In  your  society 
With  the  variety 
Of  your  esprit. 
Here  's  a  long  purse  to  you, 
And  a  great  thirst  to  you ! 
Fate  be  no  worse  to  you, 
Barney  McGee ! 


Och,  and  the  girls  whose  poor  hearts  you  deracinate, 
Whirl  and  bewilder  and  flutter  and  fascinate  ! 
Faith,  it 's  so  killing  you  are,  you  assassinate,  — 
Murder  's  the  word  for  you,  Barney  McGee  ! 
Bold    when    they  're    sunny  and    smooth   when 

they  're  showery,  — 

Oh,  but  the  style  of  you,  fluent  and  flowery ! 
Chesterfield's  way,  with  a  touch  of  the  Bowery ! 
How  would  they  silence  you,  Barney  machree  f 
Naught  can  your  gab  allay, 
Learned  as  Rabelais 
(You  in  his  abbey  lay 
Once  on  the  spree). 
Here  's  to  the  smile  of  you, 
(Oh,  but  the  guile  of  you !) 
And  a  long  while  of  you, 
Barney  McGee ! 

23 


Barney  Facile  with  phrases  of  length  and  Latinity, 
McGee.  jj^g  honorificabilitudinity , 

Where  is  the  maid  could  resist  your  vicinity, 

Wiled  by  the  impudent  grace  of  your  plea  ? 

Then  your  vivacity  and  pertinacity 

Carry  the  day  with  the  divil's  audacity ; 

No  mere  veracity  robs  your  sagacity 

Of  perspicacity,  Barney  McGee. 

When  all  is  new  to  them, 

What  will  you  do  to  them  ? 

Will  you  be  true  to  them  ? 

Who  shall  decree  ? 

Here  's  a  fair  strife  to  you  ! 

Health  and  long  life  to  you ! 

And  a  great  wife  to  you, 

Barney  McGee ! 


Barney  McGee,  you  're  the  pick  of  gentility  ; 
Nothing  can  phase  you,  you  've  such  a  facility; 
Nobody  ever  yet  found  your  utility,  — 
That  is  the  charm  of  you,  Barney  McGee ; 
Under  conditions  that  others  would  stammer  in, 
Still  unperturbed  as  a  cat  or  a  Cameron, 
Polished  as  somebody  in  the  Decameron, 
Putting  the  glamour  on  prince  or  Pawnee ! 
In  your  meanderin', 
Love,  and  philanderin', 
Calm  as  a  mandarin 
Sipping  his  tea ! 
Under  the  art  of  you, 
Parcel  and  part  of  you, 
Here  's  to  the  heart  of  you, 
Barney  McGee ! 

24 


You  who  were  ever  alert  to  befriend  a  man,  Barney 

You  who  were  ever  the  first  to  defend  a  man,  McGee. 

You  who  had  always  the  money  to  lend  a  man, 

Down  on  his  luck  and  hard  up  for  a  V  ! 

Sure,  you  '11  be  playing  a  harp  in  beatitude 

(And  a  quare  sight  you  will  be  in  that  attitude)  — 

Some  day,  where  gratitude  seems  but  a  platitude, 

You  '11  find  your  latitude,  Barney  McGee. 

That 's  no  flim-flam  at  all, 

Frivol  or  sham  at  all, 

Just  the  plain —     Damn  it  all, 

Have  one  with  me  ! 

Here  's  luck  and  more  to  you  ! 

Friends  by  the  score  to  you, 

True  to  the  core  to  you, 

Barney  McGee ! 


THE    SEA   GYPSY. 

AM  fevered  with  the  sunset, 
I  am  fretful  with  the  bay, 
For  the  wander-thirst  is  on  me 
And  my  soul  is  in  Cathay. 


I 


There  's  a  schooner  in  the  offing, 
With  her  topsails  shot  with  fire, 
And  my  heart  has  gone  aboard  her 
For  the  Islands  of  Desire. 

I  must  forth  again  to-morrow ! 
With  the  sunset  I  must  be 
Hull  down  on  the  trail  of  rapture 
In  the  wonder  of  the  sea. 

25 


SPEECH   AND    SILENCE. 

nPHE  words  that  pass  from  lip  to  lip 
J_  For  souls  still  out  of  reach  ! 
A  friend  for  that  companionship 
That 's  deeper  than  all  speech ! 


SECRETS. 

'T^HREE  secrets  that  never  were  said ; 

JL  The  stir  of  the  sap  in  the  spring, 
The  desire  of  a  man  to  a  maid, 
The  urge  of  a  poet  to  sing. 


THE   FIRST  JULEP. 

I   LOVE  the  lazy  Southern  spring, 
The  way  she  melts  around  a  chap 
And  lets  the  great  magnolias  fling 
Their  languid  petals  in  his  lap. 


I  love  to  travel  down  half-way 
And  meet  her  coming  up  the  earth, 
With  hurdy-gurdy  men  who  play 
And  make  the  children  dance  for  mirth. 

But  best  of  all  I  love  to  steer 
For  quiet  corners  not  too  far, 
Where  the  first  juleps  reappear 
With  fresh  green  mint  behind  the  bar. 

P.  S.     Perhaps  you  '11  think  it  queer, 
But  I  do  not  dislike  a  hint 
To  let  the  juleps  disappear 
And  stick  my  nose  into  the  mint. 
26 


STEIN   SONG. 

GIVE  a  rouse,  then,  in  the  Maytime 
For  a  life  that  knows  no  fear ! 
Turn  night-time  into  daytime 
With  the  sunlight  of  good  cheer  ! 
For  it 's  always  fair  weather 
When  good  fellows  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  good  song  ringing 
clear. 


When  the  wind  comes  up  from  Cuba 

And  the  birds  are  on  the  wing, 

And  our  hearts  are  patting  juba 

To  the  banjo  of  the  spring, 

Then  it 's  no  wonder  whether 

The  boys  will  get  together, 

With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  cheer  for  everything. 


For  we're  all  frank-and-twenty 

When  the  spring  is  in  the  air; 

And  we  Ve  faith  and  hope  a-plenty, 

And  we  've  life  and  love  to  spare ; 

And  it 's  birds  of  a  feather 

When  we  all  get  together, 

With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  heart  without  a  care. 


For  we  know  the  world  is  glorious, 
And  the  goal  a  golden  thing, 
And  that  God  is  not  censorious 
When  his  children  have  their  fling; 
And  life  slips  its  tether 
When  the  boys  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  in  the  fellowship  of  spring. 
27 


THE   UNSAINTING   OF   KAVIN. 

SAINT  KAVIN  was  a  gentleman, 
He  came  from  Tipperary ; 
And  woman  was  the  only  thing 
That  ever  made  him  scary. 

For  Kavin  was  a  tender  youth, 
And  he  was  very  simple ; 
He  feared  the  wiles  of  maiden  smiles, 
And  fainted  at  a  dimple. 

But  when  Kathleen  at  seventeen 
Came  down  the  street  one  morning, 
The  luck  of  man  came  over  him 
And  took  him  without  warning. 

Afraid  to  meet  a  foolish  fate 
By  green  sea  or  by  dry  land, 
He  fled  away  without  delay 
And  sought  a  desert  island. 

But  even  there  he  felt  despair ; 
For  happiness  is  only 
The  hope  of  doing  something  else ; 
And  he  was  very  lonely. 

He  vowed  to  lead  a  life  of  prayer 
Because  that  he  had  lost  her : 
And  every  time  he  thought  of  her 
He  said  a  Pater  noster. 

Yet  hard  it  is  for  man  to  change 
The  less  love  for  the  greater; 
And  every  time  he  reached  Amen, 
He  must  go  back  to  Pater. 
28 


And  so  he  grew  a  year  or  two  The  Un- 

Disconsolate  and  holy,  sainting  of 

While  friends  he  'd  known  long  since  had  grown     a 
Papas  and  roly-poly. 

Until  one  day,  one  blessed  day, 
A-moping  like  a  Hindoo, 
He  saw  Kathleen  in  mournful  mien 
A-passing  by  his  window. 

He  threw  away  his  rosary, 

His  Paters  and  his  Aves; 

For  love  is  stronger  than  the  wind 

That  wafts  a  thousand  navies. 

The  holy  man  went  forth  to  war, 
But  not  against  the  devil. 
He  led  the  maid  within  for  shade, 
And  treated  her  most  civil. 

He  gave  her  cakes,  he  gave  her  wine, 
He  set  his  best  before  her ; 
And  then  invited  her  to  dine  — 
Thenceforth  —  with  her  adorer. 

Her  little  head  went  round  for  joy ; 
She  tried  to  kick  the  rafter: 
So  Kavin  was  a  saint  no  more, 
And  happy  ever  after. 


O! 


IN   THE   WAYLAND   WILLOWS. 
kNCE  I  met  a  soncy  maid, 
'Soncy  maid,  soncy  maid, 
Once  I  met  a  soncy  maid 
In  the  Wayland  willows. 

29 


In  the  Way-  All  her  hair  was  goldy  brown, 
landWillows.  Goldy  brown,  goldy  brown, 
In  the  sun  a  single  braid 
To  her  waist  hung  down. 

Honey  bees,  honey  bees, 
You  are  roving  fellows ! 
Idly  went  the  doxy  wind 
In  the  Wayland  willows. 

There  I  caught  her  eye  a-dance, 
Through  the  catkins  downy. 
"  Heigho,  Brownie-pate,"  said  I ; 
"  Heigho,"  said  my  Brownie. 

Then  I  kissed  my  soncy  maid, 
Soncy  maid,  soncy  maid, 
Kissed  and  kissed  my  soncy  maid 
In  the  Wayland  willows. 

Goldy  eyes  and  goldy  hair, 
And  little  gypsy  bosom, 
Chin  and  lip  and  shoulder  tip, 
Blossom  after  blossom ! 

Hand  in  hand  and  cheek  by  cheek 
All  the  morning  weather  ! 
How  the  yellow  butterflies 
Danced  and  winked  together ! 

Till  the  day  went  down  the  hill 
Where  the  shadows  waded. 
"  Heigho,  Soncy !  "     "  Heigho,  me ! " 
Then  I  did  as  day  did. 
3° 


All  her  tousled  beauty  bright  /«  the  Way- 

And  teasing  as  before,  land  WMmt. 

I  left  her  there  in  sweet  despair, 
A  soncy  maid  no  more. 


WHEN    I   WAS   TWENTY. 

T  was  June,  and  I  was  twenty. 
All  my  wisdom,  poor  but  plenty, 
Never  learned  Festina  lente. 
Youth  is  gone,  but  whither  went  he  f 

Madeline  came  down  the  orchard 
With  a  mischief  in  her  eye, 
Half  demure  and  half  inviting, 
Melting,  wayward,  wistful,  shy. 

Four  bright  eyes  that  found  life  lovely, 
And  forgot  to  wonder  why ; 
Four  warm  lips  at  one  love-lesson, 
Learned  by  heart  so  easily. 

We  gained  something  of  that  knowledge 
No  man  ever  yet  put  by, 
But  his  after  days  of  sorrow 
Left  him  nothing  but  to  die. 

Madeline  went  up  the  orchard, 
Down  the  hurrying  world  went  I ; 
Now  I  know  love  has  no  morrow, 
Happiness  no  by-and-by. 

Youth  is  gone,  but  whither  went  hef 
All  my  wisdom,  poor  but  plenty, 
Never  learned  Festina  lente. 
//  was  June,  and  I  was  twenty. 


IN   A   SILENCE. 

HEART  to  heart ! 
And  the  stillness  of  night  and  the  moonlight, 

like  hushed  breathing 
Silently,  stealthily  moving  across  thy  hair ! 

0  womanly  face ! 

Tender  and  strong  and  lucent  with  infinite  feeling, 
Shrinking  with  startled  joy,  like  wind-struck  water, 
And  yet  so  frank,  so  unashamed  of  love ! 

Ay,  for  there  it  is,  love  —  that 's  the  deepest. 
Love  's  not  love  in  the  dark. 
Light  loves  wither  i'  the  sun,  but  Love  endureth, 
Clothing  himself  with  the  light  as  with  a  robe. 

1  would  bare  my  soul  to  thy  sight  — 
Leave  not  a  secret  deep  unsearched, 
Unrevealing  its  shame  or  its  glory. 

Love  without  Truth  shall  die  as  a  soul  without  God. 

A  lying  love  is  the  love  of  a  day 

But  the  brave  and  true  shall  love  forever. 

Build  Love  a  house  ; 

Let  the  walls  be  thick ; 

Shut  him  in  from  the  sight  of  men ; 

But  hide  not  Love  from  himself. 

Ah,  the  summer  night ! 

The  wind  in  the  trees  and  the  moonlight! 

And  my  kisses  on  thy  throat 

And  thy  breathing  in  my  hair ! 

Silent,  lips  to  lips  ! 

But  our  souls  have  held  speech,  thought  answering 

echoing  thought, 

Though  the  only  words  were  kisses. 
32 


THE   BATHER. 

SAW  him  go  down  to  the  water  to  bathe ; 
He  stood  naked  upon  the  bank. 


I 


His  breast  was  like  a  white  cloud  in  the  heaven, 

that  catches  the  sun  ; 
It  swelled  with  the  sharp  joy  of  the  air. 

His  legs  rose  with  the  spring  and  curve  of  young 

birches ; 
The  hollow  of  his  back  caught  the  blue  shadows : 

With  his  head  thrown  up  to  the  lips  of  the  wind ; 
And  the  curls  of  his  forehead  astir  with  the  wind. 

I  would  that  I  were  a  man,  they  are  so  beautiful ; 
Their  bodies  are  like  the  bows  of  the  Indians ; 
They  have  the  spring  and  the  grace  of  bows  of 
hickory. 

I  know  that  women  are  beautiful,  and  that  I  am 

beautiful ; 
But  the  beauty  of  a  man  is  so  lithe  and  alive  and 

triumphant, 
Swift  as  the  flight  of  a  swallow  and  sure  as  the 

pounce  of  the  eagle. 


NOCTURNE:    IN   ANJOU. 

I    DREAMED  of  Sappho  on  a  summer  night. 
Her  nightingales  were  singing  in  the  trees 
Beside  the  castled  river ;  and  the  wind 
Fell  like  a  woman's  fingers  on  my  cheek. 
And  then  I  slept  and  dreamed  and  marked  no 
change ; 

33 


Nocturne  .-The  night  went  on  with  me  into  my  dream. 

inAnjou.  This  only  j  remember,  that  I  cried: 

"O  Sappho!  ere  I  leave  this  paradise, 
Sing  me  one  song  of  those  lost  books  of  yours 
For  which  we  poets  still  go  sorrowing ; 
That  when  I  meet  my  fellows  on  the  earth 
I  may  rejoice  them  more  than  many  pearls ;  " 
And  she,  the  sweetly  smiling,  answered  me, 
As  one  who  dreams,  "  I  have  forgotten  them." 


NOCTURNE:    IN    PROVENCE. 

r~F*HE  blue  night,  like  an  angel,  came  into  the 
J_  room,  — 

Came  through  the  open  window  from  the  silent  sky 
Down  trellised  stairs  of  moonlight  into  the  dear 

room 

As  if  a  whisper  breathed  of  some  divine  one  nigh. 
The  nightingales,  like  brooks  of  song  in  Paradise, 
Gurgled  their  serene  rapture  to  the  silent  sky  — 
Like  springs  of  laughter  bubbling  up  in  Paradise, 
The  serene  nightingales  along  the  riverside 
Purled  low  in  every  tree  their  star-cool  melodies 
Of  joy  —  in  every  tree  along  the  riverside. 

Did  the  vain  garments  melt  in  music  from  your 

side? 

Did  you  rise  from  them  as  a  lily  flowers  i'  the  air  ? 
—  But  you  were  there  before  me  like  the  Night's 

own  bride  — 
I  dared  not  call  you  mine.     So  still  and  tall  you 

were, 
I  never  dreamed  that  you  were  mine  —  I  never 

dreamed 

34 


I  loved  you  —  I  forgot  I  loved  you.    You  were  air  Nocturne: 
And  music,  and  the  shadows  that  you  stood  in,  "*  Pro~ 

seemed  *<*"' 

Like  priests  that  keep  their  sombre  vigil  round  a 

shrine  — 
Like  sombre  priests  that  watch  about  a  glorious 

shrine. 

And  then  you  stepped  into  the  moonlight  and 

laid  bare 

The  wonder  of  your  body  to  the  night,  and  stood 
With  all  the  stars  of  heaven  looking  at  you  there, 
As  simply  as  a  saint  might  bare  her  soul  to  God  — 
As  simply  as   a   saint   might  bathe  in  lakes  of 

prayer  — 

Stood  with  the  holy  moonlight  falling  on  you  there 
Until  I  thought  that  in  a  glory  unaware 
I  had  seen  a  soul  stand  forth  and  bare  itself  to 

God  — 
A  saintly  soul  lay  bare  its  innocence  to  God. 


JUNE   NIGHT   IN   WASHINGTON. 
HHHE  scent  of  honeysuckle, 
J.  Drugging  the  twilight 
With  its  sweet  opiate  of  lovers'  dreams ! 
The  last  red  glow  of  the  setting  sun 
On  the  red  brick  wall 
Of  the  neighboring  house, 
And  the  scramble  of  red  roses  over  it ! 

Slowly,  slowly  • 

The  night  smokes  up  from  the  city  to  the  stars, 

The  faint  foreshadowed  stars ; 

The  smouldering  night 

35 


June  night  Breathes  upward  like  the  breath 

Iin3f          Of  a  woman  asleeP 

tngton.        with  dim  breasts  rising  and  falling 

And  a  smile  of  delicate  dreams. 

Softly,  softly 

The  wind  comes  into  the  garden, 

Like  a  lover  that  fears  lest  he  waken  his  love, 

And  his  hands  drip  with  the  scent  of  the  roses 

And   his   locks   weep   with   the   opiate    odor   of 

honeysuckle. 
Sighing,  sighing 

As  a  lover  that  yearns  for  the  lips  of  his  love, 
In  a  torment  of  bliss, 
In  a  passionate  dreaming  of  bliss, 
The  wind  in  the  trees  of  the  garden  ! 

How  intimate  are  the  trees,  — 

Rustling  like  the  secret  darkness  of  the  soul ! 

How  still  is  the  starlight,  — 

Aloof  in  the  placidity  of  dream  ! 

Outside  the  garden 

A  group  of  negroes  passing  in  the  street 

Sing  with  ripe  lush  voices, 

Sing  with  voices  that  swim 

Like  great  slow  gliding  fishes 

Through  the  scent  of  the  honeysuckle: 

My  love  '.$•  ivaitin', 
Waitin1  by  the  river, 
Waitiri1  till  I  come  along  ! 
Wait  there,  child;  I  'm  comin\ 

Jay-bird  to?  me, 
ToP  me  in  the  mornin\ 
36 


ToF  me  she  'd  be  there  to-night.  J™*  night 

Wait  there,  child;  /';«  comitf.  tn  Wash- 

ington, 

Waves  of  dream ! 

Spell  of  the  summer  night ! 

Will  of  the  grass  that  stirs  in  its  sleep ! 

Desire  of  the  honeysuckle ! 

And  further  away, 

Like  the  plash  of  far-off  waves  in  the  fluid  night, 

The  negroes,  singing: 

Whip-po'-will  toV  me, 

ToP  me  in  the  e-venirf, 

"  Down  by  the  bend  where  the  cat-tails  grow" 

Wait  there,  child;  I '/«  comin\ 

Lo,  the  moon, 

Like  a  galleon  sailing  the  night ; 
And  the  wash  of  the  moonlight  over  the  roofs 
and  the  trees  ! 

Oh,  my  bride, 

Come  down  from  yonder  lattice  where  you  bide 

Like  a  charmed  princess  in  a  Persian  song ! 

I  look  up  at  your  yellow  window-panes 

Set  in  the  night  with  far-off  wizardry. 

Come  down,  come  down  ;  the  night  is  fain  of  you, 

The  garden  waits  your  footstep  on  its  walks. 

Lo,  the  moon, 

Like  a  galleon  sailing  the  night; 
And  the  wash  of  the  moonlight  over  the  red  brick 
wall  and  the  roses  ! 

A  gleam  of  lamplight  through  an  open  door ! 
A  footfall  like  the  wind's  upon  the  grass ! 
A  rustle  like  the  wind's  among  the  leaves  !  .  .  . 
Dim  as  a  dream  of  pale  peach  blooms  of  light, 
37 


June  night  Blue  in  the  blue  soft  pallor  of  the  moon, 
in  Wash-    g^g  comes  between  the  trees  as  a  faint  tune 
ington. 


So  Death  might  come  to  one  who  knew  him  Love. 


SONG   FOR   MARNA. 

DAME  of  the  night  of  hair 
Like  blue  smoke  blown ! 
World  yet  undreamed-of  there 
Lurks  to  be  known. 

Dame  of  the  dizzy  eyes, 
Lure  of  dim  quests ! 
World  of  what  midnights  lies 
Under  thy  breasts ! 

Dame  of  the  quench  of  love, 
Give  me  to  quaff ! 
There  's  all  the  world  's  made  of 
Under  thy  laugh. 

Dame  of  the  dare  of  gods, 
Let  the  sky  lower ! 
Time,  give  the  world  for  odds,  — 
I  choose  this  hour. 


SEPTEMBER   WOODLANDS. 

npHIS  is  not  sadness  in  the  wood; 
JL  The  yellowbird 
Flits  joying  through  the  solitude, 
By  no  thought  stirred 
Save  of  his  little  duskier  mate 
And  rompings  jolly. 
38 


If  there  's  a  Dryad  in  the  wood, 

She  is  not  sad. 

Too  wise  the  spirits  are  to  brood ; 

Divinely  glad, 

They  dream  with  countenance  sedate 

Not  melancholy. 


NANCIBEL. 

'"pHE  ghost  of  a  wind  came  over  the  hill, 
_L  While  day  for  a  moment  forgot  to  die, 
And  stirred  the  sheaves 
Of  the  millet  leaves, 
As  Nancibel  went  by. 

Out  of  the  lands  of  Long  Ago, 

Into  the  land  of  By  and  By, 

Faded  the  gleam 

Of  a  journeying  dream, 

As  Nancibel  went  by. 


VAGABOND    SONG. 

*T^HERE  is  something  in  the  autumn  that  is 
J_          native  to  my  blood  — 
Touch  of  manner,  hint  of  mood; 
And  my  heart  is  like  a  rhyme, 
With  the  yellow  and  the  purple  and  the  crimson 
keeping  time. 

The  scarlet  of  the  maples  can  shake  me  like  a  cry 
Of  bugles  going  by. 
And  my  lonely  spirit  thrills 

To  see  the  frosty  asters  like  a  smoke  upon  the  hills. 
39 


A  Vaga-    There  is  something  in  October  sets  the  gypsy 
bond  Song.  bj00(j  astir. 

We  must  rise  and  follow  her, 

When  from  every  hill  of  flame 

She  calls  and  calls  each  vagabond  by  name. 


THREE    OF   A   KIND. 

/~r*HREE  of  us  without  a  care 
J.  In  the  red  September 
Tramping  down  the  roads  of  Maine, 
Making  merry  with  the  rain, 
With  the  fellow  winds  a-fare 
Where  the  winds  remember. 

Three  of  us  with  shocking  hats, 
Tattered  and  unbarbered, 
Happy  with  the  splash  of  mud, 
With  the  highways  in  our  blood, 
Bearing  down  on  Deacon  Platt's 
Where  last  year  we  harbored. 

We  Ve  come  down  from  Kennebec, 
Tramping  since  last  Sunday, 
Loping  down  the  coast  of  Maine, 
With  the  sea  for  a  refrain, 
And  the  maples  neck  and  neck 
All  the  way  to  Fundy. 

Sometimes  lodging  in  an  inn, 
Cosey  as  a  dormouse  — 
Sometimes  sleeping  on  a  knoll 
With  no  rooftree  but  the  Pole  — 
Sometimes  halely  welcomed  in 
At  an  old-time  farmhouse. 
40 


Loafing  under  ledge  and  tree,  Three  of 

Leaping  over  boulders, 

Sitting  on  the  pasture  bars, 

Hail-fellow  with  storm  or  stars  — 

Three  of  us  alive  and  free, 

With  unburdened  shoulders ! 

Three  of  us  with  hearts  like  pine 

That  the  lightnings  splinter, 

Clean  of  cleave  and  white  of  grain  — 

Three  of  us  afoot  again, 

With  a  rapture  fresh  and  fine 

As  a  spring  in  winter ! 

All  the  hills  are  red  and  gold ; 
And  the  horns  of  vision 
Call  across  the  crackling  air 
Till  we  shout  back  to  them  there, 
Taken  captive  in  the  hold 
Of  their  bluff  derision. 

Spray-salt  gusts  of  ocean  blow 
From  the  rocky  headlands ; 
Overhead  the  wild  geese  fly, 
Honking  in  the  autumn  sky; 
Black  sinister  flocks  of  crow 
Settle  on  the  dead  lands. 

Three  of  us  in  love  with  life, 
Roaming  like  wild  cattle, 
With  the  stinging  air  a-reel 
As  a  warrior  might  feel 
The  swift  orgasm  of  the  knife 
Slay  him  in  mid-battle. 

Three  of  us  to  march  abreast 
Down  the  hills  of  morrow  ! 
41 


Three  o/With  a  clean  heart  and  a  few 

n  Kind.  Friends  to  clench  the  spirit  to  !  — 

Leave  the  gods  to  rule  the  rest, 

And  good-by,  sorrow ! 


WOOD-FOLK   LORE.    To  T.  B.  M. 

FOR  every  one 
Beneath  the  sun, 

Where  Autumn  walks  with  quiet  eyes, 
There  is  a  word, 
Just  overheard 
When  hill  to  purple  hill  replies. 

This  afternoon, 

As  warm  as  June, 

With  the  red  apples  on  the  bough, 

I  set  my  ear 

To  hark  and  hear 

The  wood-folk  talking,  you  know  how. 

There  comes  a  "  Hush  !  " 

And  then  a  "  Tush," 

As  tree  to  scarlet  tree  responds, 

"  Babble  away ! 

He  '11  not  betray 

The  secrets  of  us  vagabonds. 

"  Are  we  not  all, 
Both  great  and  small, 
Cousins  and  kindred  in  a  joy 
No  school  can  teach, 
No  worldling  reach, 
Nor  any  wreck  of  chance  destroy  ?  " 
42 


And  so  we  are,  Wood-Folk 

However  far 

We  journey  ere  the  journey  ends, 

One  brotherhood 

With  leaf  and  bud 

And  everything  that  wakes  or  wends. 

The  wind  that  blows 

My  autumn  rose 

Where  Grand  Pre  looks  to  Blomidon,  — 

How  great  must  be 

The  company 

Of  roses  he  has  leaned  upon, 

Since  first  he  shed 

Their  petals  red 

Through  Persian  gardens  long  ago, 

When  Omar  heard 

His  muttered  word 

Rumoring  things  we  may  not  know  ! 

Our  brother  ghost, 

He  is  a  most 

Incorrigible  wanderer; 

And  still  to-day 

He  takes  his  way 

About  my  hills  of  spruce  and  fir ; 

Will  neither  bide 

By  the  great  tide, 

In  apple  lands  of  Acadie, 

Nor  in  the  leaves 

About  your  eaves, 

Where  Scituate  looks  out  to  sea. 


43 


AT   MICHAELMAS. 

ABOUT  the  time  of  Michael's  feast 
And  all  his  angels, 

There  comes  a  word  to  man  and  beast 
By  dark  evangels. 

Then  hearing  what  the  wild  things  say 
To  one  another, 

Those  creatures  first  born  of  our  gray 
Mysterious  Mother, 

The  greatness  of  the  world's  unrest 
Steals  through  our  pulses  ; 
Our  own  life  takes  a  meaning  guessed 
From  the  torn  dulse's. 

The  draft  and  set  of  deep  sea-tides 
Swirling  and  flowing, 
Bears  every  filmy  flake  that  rides, 
Grandly  unknowing. 

The  sunlight  listens ;  thin  and  fine 
The  crickets  whistle ; 
And  floating  midges  fill  the  shine 
Like  a  seeding  thistle. 

The  hawkbit  flies  his  golden  flag 
From  rocky  pasture, 
Bidding  his  legions  never  lag 
Through  morning's  vasture. 

Soon  we  shall  see  the  red  vines  ramp 
Through  forest  borders, 
And  Indian  summer  breaking  camp 
To  silent  orders. 
44 


The  glossy  chestnuts  swell  and  burst  At  Mich- 

Their  prickly  houses  aelmas. 

Agog  at  news  which  reached  them  first 
In  sap's  carouses. 

The  long  noons  turn  the  ribstons  red, 
The  pippins  yellow ; 
The  wild  duck  from  his  reedy  bed 
Summons  his  fellow. 

The  robins  keep  the  underbrush 
Songless  and  wary, 

As  though  they  feared  some  frostier  hush 
Might  bid  them  tarry ; 

Perhaps  in  the  great  North  they  heard 
Of  silence  falling 
Upon  the  world  without  a  word, 
White  and  appalling. 

The  ash-tree  and  the  lady-fern, 
In  russet  frondage, 
Proclaim  't  is  time  for  our  return 
To  vagabondage. 

All  summer  idle  have  we  kept ; 
But  on  a  morning, 

Where  the  blue  hazy  mountains  slept, 
A  scarlet  warning 

Disturbs  our  day-dream  with  a  start ; 
A  leaf  turns  over ; 
And  every  earthling  is  at  heart 
Once  more  a  rover. 

45 


At  Mich-  All  winter  we  shall  toil  and  plod, 
aelmas.    Eating  and  drinking ; 

But  now 's  the  little  time  when  God 

Sets  folk  to  thinking. 

"  Consider,"  says  the  quiet  sun, 
"How  far  I  wander; 
Yet  when  had  I  not  time  on  one 
More  flower  to  squander  ?  " 

"  Consider,"  says  the  restless  tide, 
"  My  endless  labor ; 
Yet  when  was  I  content  beside 
My  nearest  neighbor?  " 

So  wander-lust  to  wander-lure, 

As  seed  to  season, 

Must  rise  and  wend,  possessed  and  sure 

In  sweet  unreason. 

For  doorstone  and  repose  are  good, 

And  kind  is  duty ; 

But  joy  is  in  the  solitude 

With  shy-heart  beauty. 

And  Truth  is  one  whose  ways  are  meek 
Beyond  foretelling; 
And  far  his  journey  who  would  seek 
Her  lowly  dwelling. 

She  leads  him  by  a  thousand  heights, 
Lonelily  faring, 

With  sunrise  and  with  eagle  flights 
To  mate  his  daring. 
46 


For  her  he  fronts  a  vaster  fog  At  Mich- 

Than  Leif  of  yore  did, 
Voyaging  for  continents  no  log 
Has  yet  recorded. 

He  travels  by  a  polar  star, 
Now  bright,  now  hidden, 
For  a  free  land,  though  rest  be  far 
And  roads  forbidden, 

Till  on  a  day  with  sweet  coarse  bread 
And  wine  she  stays  him, 
Then  in  a  cool  and  narrow  bed 
To  slumber  lays  him. 

So  we  are  hers.     And,  fellows  mine 
Of  fin  and  feather, 
By  shady  wood  and  shadowy  brine, 
When  comes  the  weather 

For  migrants  to  be  moving  on, 
By  lost  indenture 

You  flock  and  gather  and  are  gone : 
The  old  adventure ! 

I  too  have  my  unwritten  date, 
My  gypsy  presage ; 
And  on  the  brink  of  fall  I  wait 
The  darkling  message. 

The  sign,  from  prying  eyes  concealed, 
Is  yet  how  flagrant ! 
Here  's  ragged-robin  in  the  field, 
A  simple  vagrant. 

47 


THE   MOTHER   OF   POETS.     To  H.  F.  H. 

/"TVHE  typewriter  ticketh  no  more  in  the  twilight ; 
_L  The  mother  of  poets  is  sitting  alone ; 
Only  the  katydid  teases  the  noonday ; 
Where  are  the  good-for-naught  vvanderbirds  flown  ? 

Tom  's  in  the  North  with  his  purple  impressions ; 
Dickon  's  in  London  a-building  his  fame ; 
Fred  's  in  the  mountains  a-minding  his  cattle  ; 
Kavanagh  's  teaching  and  preaching  and  game. 

Over  in  Kingscroft  a  toiler  is  writing, 
The  boyish  Old  Man  whom  no  fate  ever  floored ; 
Karl 's  in  New  York  with  his  briefs  and  his  logic, 
That  subtile  mind  like  a  velvet-sheathed  sword. 

Blomidon  welcomes  his  brother  in  silence; 
Grand  Prd  is  luring  him  back  to  her  breast ; 
Faint  and  far  off  are  the  cries  of  the  city, 
There  in  the  country  of  infinite  rest. 

All  of  them  turn  in  their  wide  vagabondage, 
Halt  and  remember  a  place  they  have  known, 
Where  the   typewriter  ticketh   no   more   in   the 

twilight, 
And  the  mother  of  poets  is  sitting  alone. 

There  they  will  surely  some  April  forgather, 
Drink  once  together  before  they  depart, 
One  by  one  over  the  threshold  of  silence, 
On  the  long  trail  of  the  wandering  heart. 

Fear  not,  little  mother,  there  may  be  a  region 
Where  poets  have  only  to  smile  and  keep  still. 
The  tick  of  the  typewriter  there  will  be  useless, 
But  there  will  be  need  of  a  motherkin  still. 


GOOD-BY. 

FOR  love  of  the  roving  foot 
And  joy  of  the  roving  eye, 
God  send  you  store  of  morrows  fair 
And  a  good  rest  by  and  by ! 


IN   A   COPY   OF   BROWNING. 
"DROWNING,  old  fellow, 
JDYour  leaves  grow  yellow, 
Beginning  to  mellow 
As  seasons  pass. 
Your  cover  is  wrinkled, 
And  stained  and  sprinkled, 
And  warped  and  crinkled 
From  sleep  on  the  grass. 

Is  it  a  wine  stain, 
Or  only  a  pine  stain, 
That  makes  such  a  fine  stain 
On  your  dull  blue,  — 
Got  as  we  numbered 
The  clouds  that  lumbered 
Southward  and  slumbered 
When  day  was  through  ? 

What  is  the  dear  mark 
There  like  an  earmark, 
Only  a  tear  mark 
A  woman  let  fall  ?  — 
As  bending  over 
She  bade  me  discover, 
"  Who  plays  the  lover, 
He  loses  all!" 

49 


In  a  Cojyo/Wiih  you  for  teacher 
Browning.  We  iearned  love's  feature 
In  every  creature 
That  roves  or  grieves ; 
When  winds  were  brawling, 
Or  bird-folk  calling, 
Or  leaf-folk  falling, 
About  our  eaves. 

No  law  must  straiten 
The  ways  they  wait  in, 
Whose  spirits  greaten 
And  hearts  aspire. 
The  world  may  dwindle, 
And  summer  brindle, 
So  love  but  kindle 
The  soul  to  fire. 

Here  many  a  red  line, 
Or  pencilled  headline, 
Shows  love  could  wed  line 
To  golden  sense ; 
And  something  better 
Than  wisdom's  fetter 
Has  made  your  letter 
Dense  to  the  dense. 

No  April  robin, 
Nor  clacking  bobbin, 
Can  make  of  Dobbin 
A  Pegasus; 
But  Nature's  pleading 
To  man's  unheeding, 
Your  subtile  reading 
Made  clear  to  us. 
50 


You  made  us  farers  In  a  Copy  of 

And  equal  sharers  Browning. 

With  homespun  wearers 
In  home-made  joys ; 
You  made  us  princes 
No  plea  convinces 
That  spirit  winces 
At  dust  and  noise. 

When  Fate  was  nagging, 
And  days  were  dragging, 
And  fancy  lagging, 
You  gave  it  scope,  — 
When  eaves  were  drippy, 
And  pavements  slippy,  — 
From  Lippo  Lippi 
To  Evelyn  Hope. 

When  winter's  arrow 
Pierced  to  the  marrow, 
And  thought  was  narrow, 
You  gave  it  room ; 
We  guessed  the  warder 
On  Roland's  border, 
And  helped  to  order 
The  Bishop's  Tomb. 

When  winds  were  harshish, 
And  ways  were  marshish, 
We  found  with  Karshish 
Escape  at  need ; 
Were  bold  with  Waring 
In  far  seafaring, 
And  strong  in  sharing 
Ben  Ezra's  creed. 


In  a  Cojtiyo/We  felt  the  menace 

Browning.  Of  lovers  pen  us, 
Afloat  in  Venice 
Devising  fibs ; 
And  little  mattered 
The  rain  that  pattered, 
While  Blougram  chattered 
To  Gigadibs. 

And  we  too  waited 
With  heart  elated 
And  breathing  bated, 
For  Pippa's  song; 
Saw  Satan  hover, 
With  wings  to  cover 
Porphyria's  lover, 
Pompilia's  wrong. 

Long  thoughts  were  started, 
When  youth,  departed 
From  the  half-hearted 
Riccardi's  bride ; 
For,  saith  your  fable, 
Great  Love  is  able 
To  slip  the  cable 
And  take  the  tide. 

Or  truth  compels  us 
With  Paracelsus, 
Till  nothing  else  is 
Of  worth  at  all. 
Del  Sarto's  vision 
Is  our  own  mission, 
And  art's  ambition 
Is  God's  own  call. 
52 


Through  all  the  seasons,  In  a  Copy  of 

You  gave  us  reasons  Browning. 

For  splendid  treasons 
To  doubt  and  fear ; 
Bade  no  foot  falter, 
Though  weaklings  palter, 
And  friendships  alter 
From  year  to  year. 

Since  first  I  sought  you, 
Found  you  and  bought  you, 
Hugged  you  and  brought  you 
Home  from  Cornhill, 
While  some  upbraid  you, 
And  some  parade  you, 
Nine  years  have  made  you 
My  master  still. 


SHAKESPEARE  HIMSELF:  FOR  THE  UN- 
VEILING OF  MR.  PARTRIDGE'S  STATUE 
OF  THE  POET. 

/"~T*HE  body  is  no  prison  where  we  lie 
JL  Shut  out  from  our  true  heritage  of  sun ; 
It  is  the  wings  wherewith  the  soul  may  fly. 
Save  through  this  flesh  so  scorned  and  spat  upon, 
No  ray  of  light  had  reached  the  caverned  mind, 
No  thrill  of  pleasure  through  the  life  had  run, 
No  love  of  nature  or  of  humankind, 
Were  it  but  love  of  self,  had  stirred  the  heart 
To  its  first  deed.     Such  freedom  as  we  find, 
We  find  but  through  its  service,  not  apart. 
And  as  an  eagle's  wings  upbear  him  higher 
Than  Andes  or  Himalaya,  and  chart 
Rivers  and  seas  beneath ;  so  our  desire, 
S3 


Shake-  With  more  celestial  members  yet,  may  soar 

speare  jnto  the  Space  of  empyrean  fire, 

£y?~  Still  bodied  but  more  richly  than  before. 

The  body  is  the  man;  what  lurks  behind 
Through  it  alone  unveils  itself.     Therefore 
We  are  not  wrong,  who  seek  to  keep  in  mind 
The  form  and  feature  of  the  mighty  dead. 
So  back  of  all  the  giving  is  divined 
The  giver,  back  of  all  things  done  or  said 
The  man  himself  in  elemental  speech 
Of  flesh  and  bone  and  sinew  uttered. 

This  is  thy  language,  Sculpture.     Thine  to  reach 

Beneath  all  thoughts,  all  feelings,  all  desires, 

To  that  which  thinks  and  lives  and  loves,  and  teach 

The  world  the  primal  selfhood  of  its  sires, 

Its  heroes  and  its  lovers  and  its  gods. 

So  shall  Apollo  flame  in  marble  fires, 

The  mien  of  Zeus  suffice  before  he  nods, 

So  Gautama  in  ivory  dream  out 

The  calm  of  Time's  untrammelled  periods, 

So  Sigurd's  lips  be  in  themselves  a  shout. 

Mould  us  our  Shakespeare,  sculptor,  in  the  form 
His  comrades  knew,  rare  Ben  and  all  the  rout 
That  found  the  taproom  of  the  Mermaid  warm 
With  wit  and  wine  and  fellowship,  the  face 
Wherein  the  men  he  chummed  with  found  a  charm 
To  make  them  love  him  ;  carve  for  us  the  grace 
That  caught  Anne  Hathaway  in  Shottery-side, 
The  hand  that  clasped  Southampton's  in  the  days 
Ere  that  dark  dame  of  passion  and  of  pride 
Burned  in  his  heart  the  brand  of  her  disdain, 
The  eyes  that  wept  when  little  Hamnet  died, 
The  lips  that  learned  from  Marlowe's  and  again 
54 


Taught  riper  lore  to  Fletcher  and  the  rest,  Shake- 

The  presence  and  demeanor  sovereign 

At  last  at  Stratford  calm  and  manifest, 

That  rested  on  the  seventh  day  and  scanned 

His  work  and  knew  it  good,  and  left  the  quest 

And  like  his  own  enchanter  broke  his  wand. 

No  viewless  mind !     The  very  shape,  no  less, 
He  used  to  speak  and  smile  with,  move  and  stand ! 
God  is  most  God  not  in  his  loneliness, 
Unfellowed,  discreationed,  unrevealed, 
Nor  thundering  on  Sinai,  pitiless, 
Nor  when  the  seven  vials  are  unsealed, 
But  when  his  spirit  companions  with  our  thought 
And  in  his  fellowship  our  pain  is  healed; 
And  we  are  likest  God  when  we  are  brought 
Most  near  to  all  men.     Bring  us  near  to  him, 
The  gentle,  human  soul  whose  calm  might  wrought 
Imperious  Lear  and  made  our  eyes  grow  dim 
For  Imogen,  —  who,  though  he  heard  the  spheres 
"  Still  choiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubim," 
Could  laugh  with  Falstaff  and  his  loose  compeers 
And  love  the  rascal  with  the  same  big  heart 
That  o'er  Cordelia  could  not  stay  its  tears. 

For  still  the  man  is  greater  than  his  art. 

And  though  thy  men  and  women,  Shakespeare,  rise 

Like  giants  in  our  fancy  and  depart, 

Thyself  art  more  than  all  their  masteries, 

Thy  wisdom  more  than  Hamlet's  questionings 

Or  the  cold  searching  of  Ulysses'  eyes, 

Thy  mirth  more  sweet  than  Benedick's  flouts  and 

flings, 

Thy  smiling  dearer  than  Mercutio's, 
Thy  dignity  past  that  of  all  thy  kings, 
And  thy  enchantment  more  than  Prospero's. 
55 


Shake-  For  thou  couldst  not  have  had  Othello's  flaw, 
speare  j<for  erreci  wjth  Brutus,  —  greater,  then,  than  those 
s*K~    For  all  their  nobleness.     Oh,  albeit  with  awe, 

Leave  we  the  mighty  phantoms  and  draw  near 

The  man  that  fashioned  them  and  gave  them  law ! 

The  Master  Poet  found  with  scarce  a  peer 

In  all  the  ages  his  domain  to  share, 

Yet  of  all  singers  gentlest  and  most  dear ! 

Oh,  how  shall  words  thy  proper  praise  declare, 

Divine  in  thy  supreme  humanity 

And  near  as  the  inevitable  air  ? 

So  he  that  wrought  this  image  deemed  of  thee ; 
So  I,  thy  lover,  keep  thee  in  my  heart; 
So  may  this  figure  set  for  men  to  see 
Where  the  world  passes  eager  for  the  mart, 
Be  as  a  sudden  insight  of  the  soul 
That  makes  a  darkness  into  order  start, 
And  lift  thee  up  for  all  men,  fair  and  whole, 
Till  scholar,  merchant,  farmer,  artisan, 
Seeing,  divine  beneath  the  aureole 
The  fellow  heart  and  know  thee  for  a  man. 


AT   THE    ROAD-HOUSE:    IN    MEMORY   OF 
ROBERT    LOUIS   STEVENSON. 

YOU  hearken,  fellows?    Turned  aside 
Into  the  road-house  of  the  past! 
The  prince  of  vagabonds  is  gone 
To  house  among  his  peers  at  last. 

The  stainless  gallant  gentleman, 
So  glad  of  life,  he  gave  no  trace, 
56 


No  hint  he  even  once  beheld  At  the 

The  spectre  peering  in  his  face;  Road- 

But  gay  and  modest  held  the  road, 
Nor  feared  the  Shadow  of  the  Dust; 
And  saw  the  whole  world  rich  with  joy, 
As  every  valiant  farer  must. 

I  think  that  old  and  vasty  inn 
Will  have  a  welcome  guest  to-night. 
When  Chaucer,  breaking  off  some  tale 
That  fills  his  hearers  with  delight, 

Shall  lift  up  his  demure  brown  eyes 
To  bid  the  stranger  in ;  and  all 
Will  turn  to  greet  the  one  on  whom 
The  crystal  lot  was  last  to  fall. 

Keats  of  the  more  than  mortal  tongue 
Will  take  grave  Milton  by  the  sleeve 
To  meet  their  kin,  whose  woven  words 
Had  elvish  music  in  the  weave. 

Dear  Lamb  and  excellent  Montaigne, 
Sterne  and  the  credible  Defoe, 
Borrow,  DeQuincey,  the  great  Dean, 
The  sturdy  leisurist  Thoreau ; 

The  furtive  soul  whose  dark  romance, 
By  ghostly  door  and  haunted  stair, 
Explored  the  dusty  human  heart 
And  the  forgotten  garrets  there ; 

The  moralist  it  could  not  spoil, 
To  hold  an  empire  in  his  hands ; 
Sir  Walter,  and  the  brood  who  sprang 
From  Homer  through  a  hundred  lands, 
57 


At  the  Singers  of  songs  on  all  men's  lips, 
Road-  Tellers  of  tales  in  all  men's  ears, 
*"'  Movers  of  Hearts  that  still  must  beat 
To  sorrows  feigned  and  fabled  tears; 

Horace  and  Omar,  doubting  still 
What  mystery  lurks  beyond  the  seen, 
Yet  blithe  and  reassured  before 
That  fine  unvexed  Virgilian  mien; 

These  will  companion  him  to-night, 
Beyond  this  iron  wintry  gloom, 
When  Shakespeare  and  Cervantes  bid 
The  great  joy-masters  give  him  room. 

No  alien  there  in  speech  or  mood, 
He  will  pass  in,  one  traveller  more; 
And  portly  Ben  will  smile  to  see 
The  velvet  jacket  at  the  door. 


VERLAINE. 

LVID  of  life  and  love,  insatiate  vagabond, 
With  quest  too  furious  for  the  graal  he  would 

have  won, 

He  flung  himself  at  the  eternal  sky,  as  one 
Wrenching  his  chains  but  impotent  to  burst  the 
bond. 


Yet  under  the  revolt,  the  revel,  the  despond, 
What  pools  of  innocence,  what  crystal  benison  ! 
As  through  a  riven  mist  that  glowers  in  the  sun, 
A  stretch  of  God's  blue  calm  glassed  in  a  virgin 
pond. 

53 


Prowler  of  obscene  streets  that  riot  reels  along,        Verlaine. 
And  aisles  with  incense  numb  and  gardens  mad 

with  rose, 
Monastic  cells  and  dreams  of  dim  brocaded  lawns, 

Death,  which  has  set  the  calm  of  Time  upon  his 

song, 

Surety  upon  his  soul  has  kissed  the  same  repose 
In  some  fair  heaven  the  Christ  has  set  apart  for 

Fauns. 


DISTILLATION. 

HHHEY  that  eat  the  uncrushed  grape 
JL  Walk  with  steady  heels ; 
Lo,  now,  how  they  stare  and  gape 
Where  the  poet  reels ! 
He  has  drunk  the  sheer  divine 
Concentration  of  the  vine. 


FRIEND'S    WISH.     To  C.  W.  S. 

GIVE  me  your  last  Aloha, 
When  I  go  out  of  sight, 
Over  the  dark  rim  of  the  sea 
Into  the  Polar  night! 

And  all  the  Northland  give  you 

Skoal  for  the  voyage  begun, 

When  your  bright  summer  sail  goes  down 

Into  the  zones  of  sun  ! 

59 


LAL   OF   KILRUDDEN. 

T^ILRUDDEN  ford,  Kilrudden  dale, 
J^.  Kilrudden  fronting  every  gale 
On  the  lorn  coast  of  Inishfree, 
And  Lai's  last  bed  the  plunging  sea. 

Lai  of  Kilrudden  with  flame-red  hair, 

And  the  sea-blue  eyes  that  rove  and  dare, 

And  the  open  heart  with  never  a  care  ; 

With  her  strong  brown  arms  and  her  ankles  bare, 

God  in  heaven,  but  she  was  fair, 

That  night  the  storm  put  in  from  sea  ? 

The  nightingales  of  Inishkill, 
The  rose  that  climbed  her  window-sill, 
The  shade  that  rustled  or  was  still, 
The  wind  that  roved  and  had  his  will, 
And  one  white  sail  on  the  low  sea-hill, 
Were  all  she  knew  of  love. 

So  when  the  storm  drove  in  that  day, 
And  her  lover's  ship  on  the  ledges  lay, 
Past  help  and  wrecking  in  the  gray, 
And  the  cry  was,  "  Who'll  go  down  the  bay, 
With  half  of  the  lifeboat's  crew  away?" 
Who  should  push  to  the  front  and  say, 
"  I  will  be  one,  be  others  who  may," 
But  Lai  of  Kilrudden,  born  at  sea! 

The  nightingales  all  night  in  the  rain, 
The  rose  that  fell  at  her  window-pane, 
The  frost  that  blackened  the  purple  plain, 
And  the  scorn  of  pitiless  disdain 
At  the  hands  of  the  wolfish  pirate  main, 
Quelling  her  great  hot  heart  in  vain, 
Were  all  she  knew  of  death. 
60 


Kilrudden  ford,  Kilrudden  dale,  Lai  of 

Kilrudden  ruined  in  the  gale  Kilrudden. 

That  wrecked  the  coast  of  Inishfree, 
And  Lai's  last  bed  the  plunging  sea. 


O! 


HUNTING-SONG:  FROM  "KING  ARTHUR." 

IH,  who  would  stay  indoor,  indoor, 
When  the   horn   is   on   the   hill  ?      (Bugle, : 

Tarantara ! 
With  the  crisp  air  stinging,  and  the  huntsmen 

singing, 
And  a  ten-tined  buck  to  kill ! 

Before  the  sun  goes  down,  goes  down, 

We  shall  slay  the  buck  of  ten;  (Bugle:  Tarantara! 

And  the  priest  shall  say  benison,  and  we  shall  ha'e 

venison, 
When  we  come  home  again. 

Let  him  that  loves  his  ease,  his  ease, 
Keep  close  and  house  him  fair;    (Bugle:  Taran- 
tara! 
He  '11  still  be  a  stranger  to  the  merry  thrill  of 

danger 
And  the  joy  of  the  open  air. 

But  he  that  loves  the  hills,  the  hills, 

Let  him  come  out  to-day !     (Bugle  :   Tarantara ! 

For  the  horses  are  neighing,  and  the  hounds  are 

baying, 

And  the  hunt 's  up,  and  away ! 
61 


BUIE   ANNAJOHN. 

BUIE    ANNAJOHN   was    the   king's    black 
mare, 

Buie,  Buie,  Buie  Annajohn! 
Satin  was  her  coat  and  silk  was  her  hair, 
Buie  Annajohn, 
The  young  king's  own. 

March  with  the  white  moon,  march  with  the  sun, 
March  with  the  merry  men,  Buie  Annajohn  ! 

Buie  Annajohn,  when  the  dew  lay  hoar, 

(Buie,  Buie,  Buie  Annajohn  !) 

Down  through  the  meadowlands  went  to  war,  — 

Buie  Annajohn, 

The  young  king's  own. 

March  by  the  river  road,  march  by  the  dune, 

March  with  the  merry  men,  Buie  Annajohn  ! 

Buie  Annajohn  had  the  heart  of  flame, 

Buie,  Buie,  Buie  Annajohn  ! 

First  of  the  hosts  to  the  nestings  came 

Buie  Annajohn, 

The  young  king's  own. 

March  till  we  march  the  red  sun  down, 

March  with  the  merry  men,  Buie  Annajohn ! 

Back  from  the  battle  at  the  close  of  day, 
(Buie,  Buie,  Buie  Annajohn  !) 
Came  with  the  war  cheers,  came  with  a  neigh, 
Buie  Annajohn, 
The  young  king's  own. 
Oh,  heavy  was  the  sword  that  we  laid  on ; 
But  half  of  the  heave  was  Buie  Annajohn, 
Buie,  Buie,  Buie  Annajohn ! 
62 


MARY   OF   MARKA. 

ERIC  of  Marka  holds  the  knife : 
"  A  nameless  death  for  a  nameless  life."  — 

"  Mary  of  Marka,  bid  him  stay, 

And  the  morrow  shall  be  our  wedding-day."  — 

"  Will  the  blessing  of  priest  give  back  my  faith, 
Or  life  to  the  child  you  left  to  death  ?  "  — 

Eric  of  Marka  holds  the  knife, 

And  turns  to  the  mother  that  is  no  wife : 

"  Mary  of  Marka,  have  your  will ! 
Shall  I  spare  him,  or  shall  I  kill  ?  "  — 

"  He  wrought  me  wrong  when  the  days  were  sweet, 
And  he'll  get  no  more  but  a  winding-sheet." 


PREMONITION. 

;E  said,  "  Good-night,  my  heart  is  light, 
To-morrow  morn  at  day 
We  two  together  in  the  dew 
Shall  forth  and  fare  away. 

"  We  shall  go  down  the  halls  of  dawn 
To  find  the  doors  of  joy; 
We  shall  not  part  again,  dear  heart." 
And  he  laughed  out  like  a  boy. 

He  turned  and  strode  down  the  blue  road 
Against  the  western  sky 
Where  the  last  line  of  sunset  glowed 
As  sullen  embers  die. 

63 


Premoni-  The  night  reached  out  her  kraken  arms 
tion,         To  clutch  him  as  he  passed, 
And  for  one  sudden  moment 
My  soul  shrank  back  aghast. 


THE    HEARSE-HORSE. 

SAID  the  hearse-horse  to  the  coffin, 
"  What  the  devil  have  you  there  ? 
I  may  trot  from  court  to  square, 
Yet  it  neither  swears  nor  groans, 
When  I  jolt  it  over  stones." 
Said  the  coffin  to  the  hearse-horse, 
"  Bones ! " 

Said  the  hearse-horse  to  the  coffin, 
"What  the  devil  have  you  there, 
With  that  purple  frozen  stare  ? 
Where  the  devil  has  it  been 
To  get  that  shadow  grin?  " 
Said  the  coffin  to  the  hearse-horse, 
"  Skin ! " 

Said  the  hearse-horse  to  the  coffin, 

"What  the  devil  have  you  there? 

It  has  fingers,  it  has  hair ; 

Yet  it  neither  kicks  nor  squirms 

At  the  undertaker's  terms." 

Said  the  coffin  to  the  hearse-horse, 

"  Worms ! " 


THE   NIGHT-WASHERS. 

WHE-OOH,  ooh,  ooh,  ooh,  ooh  ! 
We  are  the  brothers  of  ghouls,  and  who 
In  the  name  of  the  Crooked  Saints  are  you? 
64 


We  are  the  washers  of  shrouds  wherein  The  Night- 

The  lovers  of  beauty  who  sainted  sin  Washers. 

Sleep  till  the  Judgment  Day  begin. 

When  the  moon  is  drifting  overhead, 
We  wash  the  linen  of  the  dead, 
Stained  with  yellow  and  stiff  with  red. 

Whe-ooh,  ooh,  ooh,  ooh,  ooh ! 

We  are  the  foul  night-washers,  and  who 

By  the  Seven  Lovely  sins  are  you  ? 

Here  we  sit  by  the  river  reeds, 
Rinsing  the  linen  that  reeks  and  bleeds, 
And  craving  the  help  our  labor  needs. 

Come,  Sir  Fop,  fall  to,  fall  to ! 

Show  us  for  once  what  you  can  do  ! 

One  day  there  '11  be  washing  enough  for  you. 

Wade  in,  wade  in,  where  the  river  runs 
Clear  in  the  moonlight  over  the  stones  ! 
It  '11  wash  the  ache  from  your  scrofulous  bones. 

Whe-ooh,  ooh,  ooh,  ooh,  ooh  ! 

We  are  the  gossips  of  fame,  and  who 

By  the  Sinners'  Litany  are  you? 

Wade  in,  wade  in  !     The  water  is  cold, 
The  stains  are  deep,  and  the  linen  is  old ; 
But  surely  the  sons  of  the  town  are  bold ! 

Work  for  us  here  till  the  break  of  day 
At  washing  the  stains  of  the  dead  away, 
And  you  shall  be  merry,  come  what  may! 
65 


The  Night-  From  now  till  your  ninetieth  year  begins, 
Washers.    You  shall  sin  the  Seven  Lovely  sins, 

While  wearing  the  virtue  a  cardinal  wins. 

Refuse,  and  your  arms  shall  be  broken  and  wried, 
To  dangle  like  fenders  over  the  side 
Of  an  empty  ship  on  the  harbor  tide ! 

They  shall  gather  a  waist  in  their  grip  no  more, 
As  you  wander  the  wide  world  over  and  o'er, 
With  the  curs  at  your  heels  from  door  to  door. 

With  only  a  stranger  to  cover  your  face, 
You  shall  die  in  the  streets  of  an  outcast  race, 
And  your  linen  be  washed  in  the  market-place  ! 

Whe-ooh,  ooh,  ooh,  ooh,  ooh  ! 

We  are  the  Scavenger  Saints,  but  who 

In  the  name  of  the  Shadowy  Kin  are  you  ? 


O 


MR.   MOON:    A  SONG   OF  THE  LITTLE 
PEOPLE. 

MOON,  Mr.  Moon, 

When  you  comin'  down? 
Down  on  the  hilltop, 
Down  in  the  glen, 
Out  in  the  clearin', 
To  play  with  little  men  ? 
Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 
When  you  comin'  down? 

O  Mr.  Moon, 
Hurry  up  your  stumps ! 
Don't  you  hear  Bullfrog 
66 


Callin'  to  his  wife,  Mr.  Moon. 

And  old  black  Cricket 

A-wheezin'  at  his  fife  ? 

Hurry  up  your  stumps, 

And  get  on  your  pumps ! 

Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 

When  you  comin'  down? 

O  Mr.  Moon, 

Hurry  up  along ! 

The  reeds  in  the  current 

Are  whisperin'  slow ; 

The  river  's  a-wimplin' 

To  and  fro. 

Hurry  up  along, 

Or  you  '11  miss  the  song! 

Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 

When  you  comin'  down  ? 

O  Mr.  Moon, 
We  're  all  here  ! 
Honey-bug,  Thistledrift, 
White-imp,  Weird, 
Wryface,  Billiken, 
Qui'dnunc,  Queered; 
We  're  all  here, 
And  the  coast  is  clear! 
Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 
When  you  comin'  down  ? 

O  Mr.  Moon, 
We  're  the  little  men ! 
Dewlap,  Pussymouse, 
Ferntip,  Freak, 
Drink-again,  Shambler, 
Talkytalk,  Squeak ; 
67 


Mr.  Moon.  Three  times  ten 
Of  us  little  men ! 
Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 
When  you  comin'  down  ? 


O  Mr.  Moon, 

We  're  all  ready  ! 

Tallenough,  Squaretoes, 

Amble,  Tip, 

Buddy  bud,  Heigho, 

Little  black  Pip ; 

We  're  all  ready, 

And  the  wind  walks  steady! 

Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 

When  you  comin'  down  ? 


O  Mr.  Moon, 
We  're  thirty  score ; 
Yellowbeard,  Piper, 
Lieabed,  Toots, 
Meadowbee,  Moonboy, 
Bully-in-boots ; 
Three  times  more 
Than  thirty  score. 
Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 
When  you  comin'  down  ? 


O  Mr.  Moon, 
Keep  your  eye  peeled ; 
Watch  out  to  windward, 
Or  you  '11  miss  the  fun, 
Down  by  the  acre 
Where  the  wheat-waves  run ; 
68 


Keep  your  eye  peeled  Mr.  Moon. 

For  the  open  field. 
Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 
When  you  comin'  down? 

O  Mr.  Moon, 

There  's  not  much  time ! 
Hurry,  if  you  're  comin', 
You  lazy  old  bones ! 
You  can  sleep  to-morrew 
While  the  Buzbuz  drones; 
There  's  not  much  time 
Till  the  church  bells  chime. 
Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 
When  you  comin'  down  ? 

O  Mr.  Moon, 
Just  see  the  clover! 
Soon  we  '11  be  going 
Where  the  Gray  Goose  went 
When  all  her  money 
Was  spent,  spent,  spent ! 
Down  through  the  clover, 
When  the  revel 's  over ! 
Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 
When  you  comin'  down  ? 

O  Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 
When  you  comin'  down? 
Down  where  the  Good  Folk 
Dance  in  a  ring, 
Down  where  the  Little  Folk 
Sing? 

Moon,  Mr.  Moon, 
When  you  comin'  down  ? 
69 


HEM   AND    HAW. 

HEM  and  Haw  were  the  sons  of  sin, 
Created  to  shally  and  shirk ; 
Hem  lay  'round  and  Haw  looked  on 
While  God  did  all  the  work. 

Hem  was  a  fogy,  and  Haw  was  a  prig, 
For  both  had  the  dull,  dull  mind  : 
And  whenever  they  found  a  thing  to  do, 
They  yammered  and  went  it  blind. 

Hem  was  the  father  of  bigots  and  bores ; 
As  the  sands  of  the  sea  were  they. 
And  Haw  was  the  father  of  all  the  tribe 
Who  criticise  to-day. 

But  God  was  an  artist  from  the  first, 
And  knew  what  he  was  about; 
While  over  his  shoulder  sneered  these  two, 
And  advised  him  to  rub  it  out. 

They  prophesied  ruin  ere  man  was  made : 

"  Such  folly  must  surely  fail ! " 

And  when  he  was  done,  "  Do  you  think,  my  Lord* 

He  's  better  without  a  tail  ?  " 

And  still  in  the  honest  working  world, 
With  posture  and  hint  and  smirk, 
These  sons  of  the  devil  are  standing  by 
While  Man  does  all  the  work. 

They  balk  endeavor  and  baffle  reform, 
In  the  sacred  name  of  law  ; 
And  over  the  quavering  voice  of  Hem 
Is  the  droning  voice  of  Haw. 

70 


ACCIDENT   IN   ART. 

"1  T  7HAT  painter  has  not  with  a  careless  smutch 
VV  Accomplished    his    despair?  —  one    touch 

revealing 

All  he  had  put  of  life,  thought,  vigor,  feeling, 
Into  the  canvas  that  without  that  touch 
Showed  of  his  love  and  labor  just  so  much 
Raw  pigment,  scarce  a  scrap  of  soul  concealing ! 
What  poet  has  not  found  his  spirit  kneeling 
A-sudden  at  the  sound  of  such  or  such 
Strange  verses  staring  from  his  manuscript 
Written  he  knows  not  how,  but  which  will  sound 
Like  trumpets  down  the  years  ?     So  Accident 
Itself  unmasks  the  likeness  of  Intent, 
And  ever  in  blind  Chance's  darkest  crypt 
The  shrine-lamp  of  God's  purposing  is  found. 


IN   A   GARDEN. 

T^HOUGHT  is  a  garden  wide  and  old 
_L  For  airy  creatures  to  explore, 
Where  grow  the  great  fantastic  flowers 
With  truth  for  honey  at  the  core. 


There  like  a  wild  marauding  bee 
Made  desperate  by  hungry  fears, 
From  gorgeous  If  to  dark  Perhaps 
I  blunder  down  the  dusk  of  years. 


AT  THE   END   OF  THE   DAY. 
HHHERE  is  no  escape  by  the  river, 
J_  There  is  no  flight  left  by  the  fen ; 
We  are  compassed  about  by  the  shiver 
Of  the  night  of  their  marching  men. 
Give  a  cheer ! 

For  our  hearts  shall  not  give  way. 
Here 's  to  a  dark  to-morrow, 
And  here  's  to  a  brave  to-day  ! 

The  tale  of  their  hosts  is  countless, 

And  the  tale  of  ours  a  score ; 

But  the  palm  is  naught  to  the  dauntless, 

And  the  cause  is  more  and  more. 

Give  a  cheer  ! 

We  may  die,  but  not  give  way. 

Here  's  to  a  silent  morrow, 

And  here  's  to  a  stout  to-day ! 

God  has  said :  "  Ye  shall  fail  and  perish ; 
But  the  thrill  ye  have  felt  to-night 
I  shall  keep  in  my  heart  and  cherish 
When  the  worlds  have  passed  in  night." 
Give  a  cheer ! 

For  the  soul  shall  not  give  way. 
Here  's  to  the  greater  to-morrow 
That  is  born  of  a  great  to-day ! 

Now  shame  on  the  craven  truckler 
And  the  puling  things  that  mope  ! 
We  've  a  rapture  for  our  buckler 
That  outwears  the  wings  of  hope. 
Give  a  cheer ! 

For  our  joy  shall  not  give  way. 
Here  's  in  the  teeth  of  to-morrow 
To  the  glory  of  to-day ! 
72 


THIS   BOOK   WAS   PRINTED   BY   JOHN    WILSON 
AND   SON,   AT  THE   UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAM- 
BRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS,  DURING  OCTOBER, 
1901 


Songs  from  Vagabondia 

By  BLISS    CARMAN  6-  RICHARD   HOVEY 

i6mo,  paper  boards,  with  cover  and  end  paper 
decorations  by  Tom  B.  Meteyard.      gi.oo. 


A  book  full  of  the  rapture  of  the  open  air  and  the  open  road,  of  the 
wayside  tavern  bench,  the  April  weather,  and  the  "  manly  love  of  com- 
rades." .  .  .  The  charm  and  interest  of  the  book  consist  in  the  real, 
frank  jollity  of  mood  and  manner,  the  gypsy  freedom,  the  intimate, 
natural  happiness  of  these  marching,  drinking,  fighting,  and  loving 
songs.  They  proclaim  a  blithe,  sane,  and  hearty  Bohemianism  in 
the  opening  lines.  .  .  .  The  mood  is  an  unusual  one,  especially  in 
verse,  but  welcome,  if  only  as  a  change,  after  the  desperate  melan- 
choly, the  heart-sickness,  and  life-weariness  of  the  average  verse-writer 
—  London  Athenceum. 

Between  the  close  covers  of  this  narrow  book  there  are  some  fifty- 
odd  pages  of  good  verse  that  Bobby  Burns  would  have  shouted  at  his 
plough  to  see  and  Elia  Lamb  would  have  praised  in  immortal  essays. 
These  are  sound,  healthy  poems,  with  a  bit  of  honest  pathos  here  and 
there,  to  be  sure,  but  made  in  the  sunlight  and  nurtured  with  whole- 
some, manly  humors.  There  is  not  a  bit  of  intellectual  hypochondria 
in  the  little  book,  and  there  is  not  a  line  that  was  made  in  the  sweat  of 
the  brow.  They  are  the  free,  untrammelled  songs  of  men  who  sing 
because  their  hearts  are  full  of  music,  and  who  have  their  own  way  of 
singing,  too.  These  are  not  the  mere  echoes  of  the  old  organ  voices. 
They  are  the  merry  pipings  of  song-birds,  and  they  bear  the  gift  of 
nature.  —  New  York  Times. 

The  authors  of  the  small  joint  volume  called  "Songs  from  Vaga- 
bondia" have  an  unmistakable  right  to  the  name  of  poet.  These 
little  snatches  have  the  spirit  of  a  gypsy  Omar  Khayydm.  They  have 
always  careless  verve,  and  often  careless  felicity ;  they  are  masculine 
and  rough,  as  roving  songs  should  be.  ...  You  have  the  whole  spirit 
of  the  book  in  such  an  unforgettable  little  lyric  as  "  In  the  House  of 
Idiedaily." —  FRANCIS  THOMPSON,  in  Merry  England. 

For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

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Last   Songs   from   Vagabondia 

By   BLISS    CARMAN    &   RICHARD    HOVEY 

i6mo,  paper  boards,  with  cover  and  end  paper 
decorations   by   Tom   B.  Meteyard.          $1.00 

This  third  collection  makes  a  fitting  close  to  the  fresh  and 
exhilarating  poetry  of  the  two  preceding  volumes  of  the  series. 
It  contains,  in  addition  to  verses  set  aside  for  this  purpose  by 
both  authors  prior  to  Mr.  Hovey's  death,  certain  later  poems 
by  Mr.  Carman,  reminiscent  of  his  friend  and  fellow-vagabond. 

"  The  sight  of  '  Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia'  must  raise  a 
pang  in  many  breasts,  a  remembrance  of  two  best  of  comrades 
sundered.  They  were  mad  carols,  those  early  Vagabondian 
lays,  with  here  and  there  a  song  more  seriously  tuned,  but 
beyond  their  joyous  ebullition  were  beauty  of  no  uncertain 
quality,  the  riches  of  Vagabondia  —  love  and  youth  and  com- 
radeship—  and  the  glamour  of  the  great  world  unexplored. 
All  those  qualities  are  embodied  in  these  '  Last  Songs/  nor  is 
the  joy  in  living  absent,  only  softened  to  a  soberer  tone.  The 
themes  vary  little,  the  joys  of  the  road  are  still  undimmed, 
there  is  ever  closer  cleaving  of  comrade  to  comrade,  and  there 
is  the  old  buckling  on  of  bravery  against  the  battle ;  under- 
neath all  this  a  note  hitherto  unheard  in  Vagabondia,  a  sense  of 
the  inescapable  loneliness  of  every  soul.  Both  Mr.  Carman 
and  Mr.  Hovey  have  perfect  command  of  the  lyric  form,  both 
the  power  to  imprison  in  richly  colored  verse  a  complete 
expression  of  the  wander-spirit."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Worthy  to  take  their  place  alongside  their  charming  and 
inspiriting  predecessors."  —  Boston  Journal. 

. "  One  finds  in  this  volume  the  breadth  of  view,  the  spon- 
taneous joy,  the  unexpected  outlook,  and  the  felicity  of 
touch  which  betray  the  true  poet."  —  The  Outlook. 

"  The  charm  of  the  verses,  especially  of  the  lyrics,  is  as  great  in 
this  as  in  the  two  previous  volumes." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

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By      RICHARD      HOVEY 

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A   POEM  IN  DRAMAS. 


I.   The  QUEST  of  MERLIN.        II.   The  MARRIAGE  O/GUENEVERE. 
III.  The  BIRTH  (/GALAHAD.    IV.  TALIESIN. 

V.   The  HOLY  GRAAL  (in  preparation). 

5  volumes,  i6mo,  paper  board  sides,  vellum  backs,  with  decoration 
in  gold  by  Bertram  Grosvenor  Goodhue. 

(For  description  of  the  separate  volumes  see  the  following  pages.) 


Reviewing  the  first  three  volumes  of  this  work,  George 
Hamlin  Fitch  wrote  as  follows  in  the  .Saw  Francisco  Chronicle  : 

"  A  new  poet,  saturated  with  the  spirit  of  the  present,  and 
yet  with  the  strength,  the  sweetness,  and  the  technical  skill  of 
the  men  who  have  become  English  classics  —  this  is  what  the 
world  of  English-speaking  readers  has  been  awaiting  for  more 
than  a  generation.  .  .  .  Hence  the  appearance  is  noteworthy 
of  an  American  poet  with  a  work  which  places  him  in  the 
front  rank  of  poets  of  to-day,  and  which  makes  him,  in  my 
judgment,  the  rightful  claimant  to  the  place  left  vacant  by  the 
authors  of  '  Pippa  Passes  '  and  '  The  Idyls  of  the  King.'  This 
may  seem  to  be  high,  even  extravagant  praise,  but  when  one 
reads  carefully  these  three  books  of  verse,  there  can  be  no 
other  judgment  than  that  here  is  a  genius  whose  first  mature 
poem  gives  promise  of  splendid  creative  work  during  the  next 
decade.  .  .  .  They  form  a  drama  which  is  full  of  the  passion 
and  power  of  Browning,  yet  with  much  of  the  charm  of  Shakes- 
peare's plays.  At  first  blush  it  seems  presumptuous  in  a 
young  poet  to  attempt  the  theme  on  which  Tennyson  lavished 
his  best  powers ;  but  when  one  has  read  Mr.  Hovey's  poems 
he  sees  at  once  the  absolute  originality  of  the  younger  poet." 

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A  Poem  in  Dramas  by  RICHARD    HOVEY 

I.  The  QUEST  of  MERLIN.     A  Masque. 

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"  The  Quest  of  Merlin  "  shows  indisputable  talent  and  in- 
disputable metrical  faculty.  —  The  Athetuzum,  London. 

Whatever  else  may  be  said  of  this  work,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  the  singer  is  master  of  the  technique  of  his  art ;  that  for 
him  our  stubborn  English  tongue  becomes  fluent  and  musical. 
.  .  .  Underlying  all  these  evidences  of  artistic  skill  is  a  deeper 
intent,  revealing  in  part  the  poet's  philosophy  of  being.  ...  — 
Washington  Post. 

"  The  Quest  of  Merlin  "  has  all  the  mystery  and  exquisite 
delicateness  of  a  midsummer  night's  dream.  —  Washington 
Republic. 

II.  The  MARRIAGE  of  GUENEVERE.     A 

Tragedy.     $1.50. 

It  requires  the  possession  of  some  remarkable  qualities  in 
Mr.  Richard  Hovey  to  impel  me  to  draw  attention  to  this 
"  poem  in  dramas  "  which  comes  to  us  from  America.  .  .  .  The 
volume  shows  powers  of  a  very  unusual  quality, — clearness 
and  vividness  of  characterization,  capacity  of  seeing,  and,  by  a 
few  happy  touches,  making  us  see,  ease  and  inevitableness  of 
blank  verse,  free  alike  from  convolution  and  monotony.  .  .  . 
If  he  has  caught  here  and  there  the  echo  of  other  voices,  his 
own  is  clear  and  full-throated,  vibrating  with  passionate  sensi- 
bility. —  HAMILTON  AID£,  in  The  Nineteenth  Century,  London. 

There  are  few  young  poets  who  start  so  well  as  Mr.  Richard 
Hovey.  He  has  the  freest  lilt  of  any  of  the  younger  Ameri- 
cans. —  WILLIAM  SHARP,  in  The  Academy,  London. 

The  strength  and  flexibility  of  the  verse  are  a  heritage  from 
the  Elizabethans,  yet  plainly  stamped  with  Mr.  Hovey's  indi- 
viduality.—  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS,  in  The  Bookbuyer. 

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III.  The  BIRTH  of  GALAHAD.     A  Roman- 

tic Drama.     $1.50. 

"  The  Birth  of  Galahad  "  is  the  finest  of  the  trilogy,  both  in 
sustained  strength  of  the  poetry  and  in  dramatic  unity. — 
GEORGE  HAMLIN  FITCH,  in  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

It  is  written  with  notable  power,  showing  a  strong  dramatic 
understanding  and  a  clear  dramatic  instinct.  Mr.  Hovey  took 
his  risk  when  he  boldly  entered  Tennyson's  close,  but  we  can- 
not see  that  he  suffers.  —  The  Independent,  New  York. 

Richard  Hovey  .  .  .  must  at  least  be  called  a  true  and  re- 
markable poet  in  his  field.  He  can  not  only  say  things  in  a 
masterly  manner,  but  he  has  something  impressive  to  say.  .  .  . 
Nothing  modern  since  the  appearance  of  Swinburne's  "Ata- 
lanta  in  Calydon  "  surpasses  them  [these  dramas]  in  virility 
and  classical  clearness  and  perfection  of  thought.  —  JOEI. 
BENTON,  in  The  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

IV.  TALIESIN.     A  Masque.     $1.00. 

"  Taliesin  "  is  a  poet's  poem.  As  a  part  of  the  "  Poem  in 
Dramas,"  it  introduces  the  second  trilogy,  and  prefigures  "  The 
Quest  of  the  Graal."  It  is  in  many  ways  the  author's  highest 
achievement.  It  is  the  greatest  study  of  rhythm  we  have  in 
English.  It  is  the  greatest  poetic  study  that  we  have  of  the 
artist's  relation  to  life,  and  of  his  development.  And  it  is  a 
significant  study  of  life  itself  in  its  highest  aspiration.  — 
CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE,  in  The  Bookman. 

No  living  poet  whose  mother-tongue  is  English  has  written 
finer  things  than  are  scattered  through  "  Taliesin." —  RICHARD 
HENRY  STODDARD,  in  The  Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

It  is  sheer  poetry  or  it  is  nothing,  the  proof  of  an  ear  and  a 
voice  which  it  seems  ill  to  have  lost  just  at  the  moment  of 
their  complete  training.  In  his  death  there  is  no  doubt  that 
America  has  lost  one  of  her  best  equipped  lyrical  and  dra- 
matic poets.  —  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN,  in  An  Amer- 
ican Anthology. 

For  sale  at  all  Bookstores,  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

SMALL,  MAYNARD   dr*   COMPANY  •  BOSTON 


Launcelot  §jf  Guenevere 

A  Poem  in  Dramas  by    RICHARD    HOVEY 

V.  The  HOLY  GRAAL.  Fragments  of  the  Five 
Unfinished  Dramas  of  the  Launcelot  & 
Guenevere  Series  (in  preparation).  $1.50. 

It  had  been  Mr.  Hovey's  intention  to  complete  his  notable 
Arthurian  Series  in  nine  dramas,  of  which  only  four  had  been 
published  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He  left  fragmentary  por- 
tions in  manuscript  of  all  the  remaining  five,  and  these  frag- 
ments have  been  edited  and  arranged,  with  notes,  by  his  widow, 
as  the  only  possible  attempt  toward  completion  of  this  match- 
less monument  of  American  verse. 

ALONG     THE     TRAIL 

A  Book  of  Lyrics  by    RICHARD     HOVEY 

i6mo,  brown  cloth,  gold  cover  decoration  by  Bertram  Gros- 
venor  Goodhue.    $1.50. 

Richard  Hovey  has  made  a  definite  place  for  himself  among 
the  poets  of  to-day.  This  little  volume  illustrates  all  his  good 
qualities  of  sincerity,  fervor,  and  lyric  grace.  He  sings  the 
songs  of  the  open  air,  of  battle  and  comradeship,  of  love,  and 
of  country, — and  they  are  all  songs  well  sung.  In  addition, 
his  work  is  distinguished  by  a  fine  masculine  optimism  that  is 
all  too  rare  in  the  poetry  of  the  younger  generation.  —  Satur- 
day Evening  Post,  Philadelphia. 

As  a  whole  it  stands  the  most  searching  test  —  you  read  it 
again  and  again  with  constantly  increasing  pleasure,  satisfac- 
tion, and  admiration.  — Boston  Herald. 

Mr.  Hovey  has  the  full  technical  equipment  of  the  poet,  and 
he  has  a  poet's  personality  to  express,  —  a  personality  new  and 
fresh,  healthy  and  joyous,  manly,  vigorous,  earnest.  Added 
to  this  he  has  the  dramatic  power  which  is  essential  to  a  broad 
poetic  endowment.  He  is  master  of  his  art  and  master  of  life. 
He  is  the  poet  of  joy  and  belief  in  life.  He  is  the  poet  of 
comradeship  and  courage. — CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE,  in  The 
Bookman. 

For  sale  at  all  Bookstores,  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

SMALL,  MAYNARD   6-   COMPANY  •  BOSTON 


By        BLISS        CARMAN 

LOW    TIDE    ON    GRAND    PRE. 

A  Book  of  Lyrics.  $1.25. 

i6mo,  cloth,  with  cover  design  in  blind  by  T.  B.  Meteyard. 
Anew  edition  of  Mr.  Carman's  first  published  book  of  poetry 
with  three  poems  not  included  in  the  first  edition. 
Mr.  Carman  is  a  poet  in  every   fibre  of  his  mortal  frame,  with  a 
Keats-like  sensitiveness  to  beauty.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

There  is  an  unextinguishable  idealism  in  all  his  work.  The  loveli- 
ness of  it  is  not  coarsely  appealing,  there  is  no  blatant  drawing  of 
attention;  but  the  elements  of  high  poetry  are  always  there.  .  .  .  No 
lovelier,  truer,  more  distinctive  verse  is  being  written  in  our  day  than 
that  of  this  Canadian  singer.  —  RICHARD  BURTON,  in  The  Satur- 
day Evening  Post. 

BEHIND   THE   ARRAS. 

A  Book  of  the  Unseen.  #1.25. 

i6mo,  cloth,  decorative,  with  eight  illustrations  by  T.  B.  Mete- 
yard.  The  subtitle  of  this  book,  and  the  dedication,  "To 
G.  H.  B.,— 

I  shut  myself  in  with  my  soul, 
And  the  shapes  come  eddying  forth," — 

explains  the  tenor  of  its  contents,  which,  for  the  most  part  in  a 
minor  key,  are  full  of  thought,  of  suggestion,  and  of  the  connec- 
tion between  soul  and  spirit.  Mr.  Meteyard  has  admirably 
caught  the  subtle  suggestions  of  the  text,  and  his  illustrations 
add  greatly  to  its  expression. 

The  collection  is  of  exceptional  merit,  and  besides  its  poetic  quality 
has  two  excellent  characteristics  :  it  awakens  interest  and  compels 
thought.  —  Halifax  Herald. 

BY  THE  AURELIAN  WALL. 

And  Other  Elegies.  $1.25. 

i6mo,  cloth,  decorative,  with  cover  design  by  G.  H.  Hallowell. 
Among  the  elegies  contained  in  this  volume  is  the  beautiful 
threnody  for  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, —  "A  Sea-mark,"  — 
which,  separately  published  some  years  ago,  aroused  the  admi- 
ration of  the  critics. 

As  a  maker  of  ballads,  imaginative  and  full  of  haunting  memory,  Mr. 
Carman  is  easily  the  master  among  his  contemporaries.  —  The  Critic. 

For  sale  at  all  Bookstores,  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY  •  BOSTON 


By         BLISS         CARMAN 

BALLADS   OF   LOST   HAVEN. 
A  Book  of  the  Sea.  $1.25. 

i6mo,  cloth,  decorative. 

By  far  the  best  book  he  has  written.  .  .  .  He  is  a  genuine  poet.  — 
The  Critic. 

It  is  a  hundred  pages  of  salt  sea,  without  a  trace  of  Kipling,  and  yet 
having  a  sea-flavor  as  unmistakable  as  his.  and  with  a  finer  touch  — 
with  less  of  repetition,  less  of  mere  technicality,  and  a  more  varied 
human  interest.  —  The  Nation. 

Beyond  all  other  American  poets  whom  we  recall  he  has  been 
most  inspired  to  sing  of  the  sea,  not  as  Byron  was,  in  a  vaguely  sub- 
lime fashion  by  the  Mediterranean,  nor,  as  Barry  Cornwall  was,  by  a 
lyrical  love  of  "  The  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea"  (upon  which  he  never 
had  marine  hardihood  enough  to  trust  himself),  but  by  the  sight  and 
sound  of  waves  —  the  sea  from  the  shore.  It  furnishes  him  with  a 
diction  of  its  own,  with  words  which  are  things,  with  vital  phrases, 
and  with  a  sense  of  movement  and  color.  —  The  Mail  and  Express. 

A  WINTER   HOLIDAY.  75  cents. 

i6mo,  paper  boards,  cover  design  in  silver,  by  T.  B.  Meteyard. 

Of  the  seven  poems  making  up  the  collection,  five  directly  reflect  the 
warm,  many-colored  experiences  of  the  Bahamas.  The  two  other 
pieces,  "  December  in  Scituate  "  and  "  Winter  at  Tortoise  Shell,"  de- 
pict in  sharp  contrast,  yet  with  equal  charm,  New  England  winter 
scenes  indoors  and  out.  They  show  that  this  poet's  remarkable  gift 
for  nature-description  is  as  much  in  evidence  when  dealing  with  win- 
ter's monochromes  as  when  moved  by  all  the  vibrancy  and  bloom  of 
the  full  summer  tide. 

But  perhaps  the  full  Carman  quality  comes  out  best  in  the  poems 
chanting  his  mid-sea  life,  his  joy  of  the  Bahaman  approach  ;  his  joy 
again  in  White  Nassau,  with  its  quaint,  clean  streets,  its  picturesque 
peddlers,  and  gay-plumaged  birds.  He  fairly  revels  in  this  world  of 
color,  light,  fragrance,  and  song.  —  RICHARD  BURTON,  in  Saturday 
Evening  Post. 

For  sale  at  all  Bookstores,  or  sent  postpaid  by 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY  •  BOSTON 


' 


IF  ANY  RECORD  OF- 
BE  BLOWN  ABOUT. 
LET  NO  ONE  SUN- 
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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


X 1.'  J.J.J-1 


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